My First Date with Katniss Everdeen
by holymfwickee
Summary: AU. Take a deep breath. Wipe the sweat off your hands. Don't let her scowl make you nervous. You're only talking to the girl you've been in love with your entire life.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: I'm a little stuck on _Scars._ Don't worry, I am working on the next chapter, but if you're up to speed on that story you know things are rather melancholy at the moment. I needed some happy. And that's definitely all this is. This story takes place in the spring before the Hunger Games, in a world where Peeta actually has a backbone.

Rated for adult language, but it's quite minimal.

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

Reviews are always appreciated. Enjoy.

**My First Date with Katniss Everdeen **

Today isn't different from any other day, not really. It's a Tuesday, just a boring every week Tuesday. My dad and Miche woke me up at four in the morning as they were getting ready to go to the bakery, like usual. My mother woke me up three hours later, telling me to get ready for school, again, like usual. I'm sitting at the kitchen table with Rilee as we eat toast with strawberry preserves in silence. I eat toast every morning. Stale bread equals toast.

"Do you think it's going to rain today?" I ask.

Rilee shrugs his shoulders. He is not a morning person. Whenever I try to start a conversation he either grunts or tells me to shut the hell up. He better find something to do outside baking because that requires waking up before the sun rises. Although, it is a little dark out right now, making it more difficult than normal to feel awake.

"It's overcast," I say. "Maybe I should take an umbrella to school."

"An umbrella? It's like a fifteen minute walk. You're such a wuss," he grumbles.

"You never know when a girl might need an umbrella," I say under my breath. Rilee's toast stops midway to his mouth. A huge, knowing grin crosses his face.

"_Oh_. Going with some chivalrous shit, huh?" _Nice, Rilee._ Break down my thoughtful gesture into some kind of sick scheme. "So, who's the girl?"

No way am I going to give him more fodder for making fun of me. "Forget I said anything." I dust the crumbs from my hands and get up to put my plate in the sink.

"You brought it up. Come on. Tell me," he pleads.

I shake my head and start packing up my bag for school. Rilee inhales the rest of his toast, still thinking and smiling. After I have all my papers and lunch put away, I glance at the front entrance where an umbrella is leaning against the wall. It's too big to put in my bag. I'll have to carry it around all day. If I take it and it does rain, I'm a well-prepared genius, and if it doesn't rain, I'm an overly cautious dork. I glance back at my bag, still mulling it over. Rilee snickers at my internal debate.

"You have the day off today, don't you?" he says. I don't answer him because he knows he's right. I do have the day off. Dad gives us a day off from the bakery every week. I usually spend it with friends. We often watch a wrestling match or play a game of soccer. Or sometimes, I use it to spend an afternoon with a girl, which is why Rilee is smirking. "It's Vesta, isn't it?" he guesses. "She still asks about you. Must have been some kiss."

"Shut up. It's not Vesta. It's not anyone. I was just giving _you_ a tip. When was the last time you went out?" I swing my bag over my shoulder and proudly grab the umbrella. He flashes an obscene hand gesture. Unfortunately, the second he does my mother walks in the room, sees it, and slaps him upside the head.

"Geez, Mom!" he complains as he rubs the back of head.

"Don't be vulgar," she orders. "And get to school."

Rilee is hastily getting his things together as I walk out the door. I don't feel like getting yelled at this early in the day, nor do I want Rilee to keep hounding me on the girl thing. Because he knows he's right about that, too. There is a girl. A girl I am going to talk to _today_.

My walk to school is uneventful. I find my friends and say hello. We complain about assignments and teachers. We stand outside on the lawn until it's time to go in because although it's overcast, it's warm, and the winter months kept us cooped up. I'm the only one with an umbrella.

The bell rings and everyone shuffles to their appropriate classrooms. I put the umbrella on the floor and slide it underneath my desk. I glance out the window from time to time, willing it get darker. The umbrella plan would make talking to this girl so much easier.

Literature is boring. We read a dramatized story of the victor of the 15th Hunger Games. He was from District 1. A career. Surprise, surprise. Killed the others with a mase. The author decided to explain this in gory detail, down to the sound the metal made when it crushed a young woman's skull in. He compared it to the sound of cracking a lobster tail, not that I even know what that sounds like from experience. Music isn't any better. We sing a song about how grand the Capitol is and how grateful we are for its presence in our lives. I mumble through the whole thing. I'm no singer, but can't put any heart into the words anyway.

Lunch is slightly more interesting when there are people to talk to, and no one is talking about the Capitol. The conversation goes from soccer matches to bad lunch food to how nice the weather has gotten since this morning. It's not going to rain. Damn umbrella. Had I not brought it, it would have rained, undoubtedly.

I don't see her during lunch, but I usually don't. She sits on the opposite side of the lunchroom. Near the other kids from the Seam, but not with any of them. It's funny how this segregation exists even in school. The Seam kids resent the merchant kids; the merchant kids hate the Seam kids. Life goes on. I've imagined what she would do if I sat at her table one day. She'd probably move to another table.

It's not until History that I can get a good look at her. It's the only class we have together. I sit on one side of the classroom surrounded by my friends. It's easier to pass notes, throw eraser bits, and cheat off one another that way. She sits on the other side of the classroom next to the windows. She's staring out at the lawn the way she does every day, like she's planning a break out. I do more staring than listening during this class, too. Her dark hair is pulled back into a tight braid that falls all the way to her lower back. I want to pull it out and run my fingers through it. Her skin is darker than mine. I can tell it's very smooth, but I want my hands to memorize the feel of it. She has a large inflamed scratch on her right arm. I want to know how she got it. These aren't the things I noticed about her when I was young, but these are the things I notice now.

The teacher asks a question. I have no idea what it was, but he's looking at me like he expects an answer. The person behind me gives the answer and I relax, not in danger of embarrassing myself like I thought. This should wake me up and make me pay attention, but it doesn't. I start scratching away at my paper, pretending to take notes. I have better uses for my time than learning the history of coal—like how I'm going to get this girl to talk to me.

Now usually, talking to a girl is not a big deal. I talk to girls every day. I flirt with girls every day. Sometimes on purpose, sometimes not. Girls read into things they shouldn't. Case and point: Vesta. One kiss and she thought we should be attached at the hip. I told her right away that it wasn't going to go anywhere. I'm not the kind of guy that strings a girl along, especially a girl I'm not into. She took it better than I expected, and we're still friends. But sometimes I do get a feeling she wants more, and apparently she talks to my brother about it.

I go on dates occasionally. I've never had a girlfriend. It never goes past a second date. There's nothing wrong with the girls. They're pretty, and nice, and can carry a conversation, but I never feel compelled to spend time alone with them again. My brothers think there's something wrong with me. They tell me I'm too picky or just plain stupid. And they may be right. I am picky when it comes to girls because I've already picked the one I want.

The problem is she doesn't know it. She's unaware anyone has a crush on her. It goes even deeper that that though. Not only is she oblivious, she couldn't possibly care less. I'm not the only one who wants her. Better men than me have tried and failed. They call her rude and cold, but I don't think she's either of those things. I think she's special and beautiful and she needs a guy who can make her feel those things all the time. However, she isn't friendly and scary as hell to approach. Even she would have to admit to that. That's why when I do finally talk to her it has to go right. She's going to judge me right on the spot and if it doesn't go perfectly, I'm not going to get another shot.

Today just feels like the right day. I couldn't say why exactly. I've been psyching myself up to do this for months, _years_ maybe. It's happening today.

The rest of the school day goes by quickly. When the final bell rings, I realize how nervous I am. I wipe my hands on my shirt and check my teeth on my way toward the exit. She's standing where I expect her to be. She waits in the front hallway every day for her sister to join her. When did I become such a stalker? I chose this time because it's the least conspicuous. All the kids are preoccupied with getting home so they won't even notice us. Half the school is already gone. I don't care if people see us talking, but I don't want an audience. This is going to be just us. And it's going to work.

However, this is as far as my plan goes. The umbrella thing clearly won't work. The sound of chirping birds coming from outside makes me even more aware of this. I can't lose this time though. If I don't do it now, I'll have to wait another week until my next day off. By then I might lose my nerve. She's still standing there, alone, while my precious opportunity is ticking away. My feet move forward. In about ten seconds I'm standing behind her. She's staring out the front doors, ready to break free just like she was during History.

I've imagined a thousand different ways this could go, stemming from indifferent brush offs to her jumping in my arms and kissing my face off. I would be satisfied with something in between those two scenarios.

I clear my throat, trying to sound natural. She doesn't turn around. I clear my throat again a little louder. She doesn't even look over her shoulder. I lift up my hand to tap her on the arm, but I think better of it. In one of my fantasies she turns around and punches me in the stomach because I scared her. I didn't think this part through thoroughly enough. I thought about what I will say and how to smile, but I can't do either of those things because I don't even have her attention. I could leave right now and wouldn't even know I was here.

"Katniss?" I say too loudly. I'm way too wound up.

She turns around quickly, looking me up and down with her steely gray eyes. She's got that unapproachable thing going on. I try not to let it get to me.

"Hi," I say at a normal volume.

Her eyes are questioning, but not threatened. Then again, I don't think she's scared of anything. "Hello," she says.

"How are you?" I ask like I'm talking to Vesta or any of my female friends. It's not the right tone for talking with Katniss though. I talk to Vesta on a daily basis and I haven't talked to Katniss…ever.

"Fine," she responds. Her eyebrow arches. And then I realize something phenomenally idiotic. I've been watching this girl for years, learning things about her without actually being friends or even acquaintances, but that doesn't mean she's been doing the same thing with me. It would be extremely conceited of me to think that. I mean, she might not even know who I am.

"I'm Peeta Mellark," I say. I offer my hand for her to shake.

"I know who you are," she says coolly.

_Right. Cause I've only known you since I was five. I am an idiot. _

Her eyebrow arches a little more and she doesn't take my hand. It awkwardly drops back to my side. And already, we've stalled. It took less than thirty seconds and I can't think of a single thing to say. I thought of topics ahead of time, but they're all eluding me at the moment. My heart is beating faster against my ribs and my palms are all sweaty again. Maybe it's a good thing she didn't shake my hand.

I notice her eye the large umbrella I'm still holding on to. Then she glances out the front doors, which reveal a sunny spring afternoon, then back at me and my umbrella. If there was anything that could make me feel more like a moron it's carrying an umbrella on the nicest day of the year. "The weather is nice, isn't it? I thought it might rain, but it appears to have cleared up."

"Yes, it has," she agrees, because how could she possibly disagree?

I try to get a hold of myself. Think. What do we have in common besides a mutual appreciation for sunny weather? She doesn't play sports and she doesn't attend any school events, so I can't bring that up. She doesn't live in town so she's not privy to any gossip, nor do I think she would care. I feel like I've taken far too long to say something and she's only seconds away from turning and walking away, when I'm suddenly struck with a bit of déjà vu. I saw her walking away just last Sunday. She was leaving the bakery after making a trade with my father.

"I wanted to thank you for the squirrel you brought us last week," I say genuinely. At least I finally made up an excuse for talking to her at all, which she's probably been wondering since this half-witted conversation started. "My mom made a stew with it."

"No reason to thank me. It was a trade. Your father gave me two loaves of bread and half a dozen rolls," she says in a monotone voice. There's a discrepancy in her story. My father told my mother he only gave her one and a half loaves of bread for the squirrel. Hm.

Before I can ask her about it, she flips her braid over her shoulder and pulls out the band at the bottom. She threads her fingers through the strands partway, and I think my jaw hits the floor. Wasn't I just envisioning this a few hours ago? What a thing to fantasize about. My brothers would call me demented. My fingers twitch with the urge to touch the silky strands, but thankfully, she separates the strands and re-braids them. Her fingers move down the length of her hair with quick precision. I take an audible gulp. She has no idea what she does to me.

"I…uh…still feel like we get the better of the trade," I stumble through my words. "Having fresh game is quite a luxury. Maybe I could do something to repay the favor?" I'm on thin ice now. None of the guys who have dared to talk to her have actually gotten to the asking out part. They're usually scared away by her scowl. The one she's wearing right now.

"You don't owe me anything," she snaps.

"I know that."

"And I don't owe you anything." She narrows her eyes at me and not only is she wearing a scowl, she's angry. I didn't think what I said would offend her.

"I didn't say you did," I try to explain. I rub the back of my neck. It feels hotter than normal. My imagination did not leave me well-prepared for this. "Look, maybe this came out wrong—"

"Katniss?" a tiny voice says from behind me. I twist around and see a little blonde girl I know to be Katniss' sister. I don't know anything about her, only that she's a few years younger than us. She's very pretty, like a doll from a toy store. She and Katniss look alike, but at the same time, they don't. The little blonde one smiles at me and doesn't seem to question my presence. Katniss is beautiful, but she doesn't smile easily. She doesn't trust anything, least of all me.

"Hi, little duck. Are you ready to go home?"

I shoot my eyes back to Katniss because I can't believe the melodic tone of her voice. I've never heard her speak so kindly, not since we were little. And I'm not so scared of her anymore because now I know that little girl still exists. She just saves it for the people she cares about. The people that deserve it. I could be one of those people.

"Who's your friend?" the blonde one asks.

"Hi. I'm Peeta." I hold my hand out like before and she takes it. I notice that, unlike her sister, she doesn't have a scratch or a bruise on her, which is unusual for a twelve year old.

"I'm Primrose Everdeen, but everyone calls me Prim," she says with a giggle. I've never heard Katniss giggle. Suddenly, I'm desperate to know what it sounds like.

"It's nice to meet you, Prim."

"It's time to go," Katniss says softly, but authoritatively. She takes her sister's arm and starts walking toward the open doors.

My opportunity is slipping away again. It's been too short. And she's probably still mad at me for whatever I did to offend her. I can't leave it like that. "Can I walk with you?" I ask without thinking. It's what I would say to any other girl if I wanted to spend the afternoon with her, although I'm beginning to realize the flirting techniques I use on other girls won't be effective with Katniss.

Both girls turn around. Prim's eyes are bright and she's got the sweetest little grin on her face. Her sister just looks confused and irritated. She does nothing to hide it.

"We're going home," she declares.

"I know. I thought—"

"It's more than a mile out of your way," she interrupts.

"I…um…," I stammer. I've never had a girl fight me on walking her home before. I don't have an argument prepared for this.

"You can walk with us till we get to the edge of town. It'll be nice to have some company," Prim says politely. Katniss flashes her a look, but it doesn't faze the girl. And a few seconds later we're walking together. I'm on one side and Katniss is on other with her little sister in between. I will have to send Prim some cookies or offer to do her homework or something because Primrose Everdeen is the world's best wingman.

It's silent and a little tense. Katniss is obviously not pleased with this situation. Perhaps because I irritated her earlier or maybe because she doesn't understand what I'm doing. I don't think she's ever had a boy walk her home. Then I remember Hawthorne. Right. I'm sure he's walked her home before. They come into the bakery together to make trades. The girls at my lunch table love to whisper about him. Not that they've ever spoken to him or would even consider dating him. They're all merchant girls who would rather die than marry someone from the Seam. They're also convinced they _would_ die if they married someone from the Seam, so their logic isn't very sound. Once in a while they ask about whether or not he and Katniss are together. I'll admit I've listened in on that gossip. The conclusion is that they're not a couple, though several of the girls think it's a secret romance. But why keep it a secret? As far as I know, they're not together, which means she's single, which means there is nothing wrong with trying to get to know her better.

"Your family owns the bakery, right?" Prim asks, as if the stiff silence isn't happening.

"Yeah." I smile at her. She blushes. I wonder what it would take to make Katniss blush.

"I love looking at the cakes in the window. Your dad is talented."

"Actually, I do those," I reluctantly admit. You never know if that will impress people or not.

"Really? They're so pretty!" Prim sounds. At least she's impressed. "I love the ones with the flowers."

"What does a primrose look like?" I ask. Getting in good with Katniss' sister has got to be a decent strategy. Katniss obviously adores her. Plus, Prim seems like the kind of girl who is real easy to be nice to anyway, like she's got a big heart.

"They're small with four or five heart-shaped petals." She makes a circle with her fingers to indicate the size of the flowers. "They come in different colors. The yellow ones are my favorite."

"Maybe I'll put some on the next cake I decorate."

Her eyes light up. Her smile grows even bigger.

"We couldn't buy something like that," Katniss says coldly. She looks just as angry as before, if not more so. How many times can I offend a girl in the course of ten minutes? I know she can't afford extravagances like that. But to her, I must sound as arrogant and ignorant as the merchant girls.

"Most people can't," I say. She glances at me and her eyes soften just a little. I hope she knows I understand our differences. I want her to know I don't care.

"Do you eat cake for breakfast?" Prim asks. I laugh.

"Why would you think that?"

"I always imagined the family who owns the bakery eating cake for breakfast, lunch, and dinner."

"If we ate the cake, we'd have nothing to sell, would we?"

"So you must have cookies for breakfast?"

"Only if they've gone stale," I chuckle. "Really stale, like you could break a tooth." Prim laughs. I look over at Katniss again. She's looking at me too and I fight the urge to look away, especially since she's not looking at me with the same animosity as before. Her eyes are questioning me again. Is she surprised I eat nothing but stale bread? Think about the logic here. We can't eat our own merchandise.

The conversation lulls as we walk through the town square, which is busy with the afterschool rush. This walk has not gone as planned. It hasn't gone terribly, but it hasn't gone remarkably well either. Although, I've had a great conversation with Prim. Too bad it's her sister that I really want to talk to.

"What did you think of the history lecture today?" I ask her. I hate the small talk nature of the question, but it's the only thing we have in common.

"It was fine. Same as yesterday."

"And the day before that, and the day before that. I think I could recite the book." _Well, maybe I could if I wasn't staring at you for half the class._

"Hm," she hums.

I think I'm seeing things when the corners of her mouth turn up. Is that a smile? Or a twitch on the way to a smile? Progress is progress. If she were any other girl, I'd have taken her bag for her by now. I'd be holding her hand. I'd tell her how pretty her smile is. She'd be chattering away about history class and I'd barely be able to get a word in. I doubt Katniss will take a compliment well. It's apparent she's not much of a talker. Or maybe, she's just not interested in such trivial, boring things. I'm not interested in talking about history class either to tell the truth. I want to know about her.

"Where did you learn to hunt?" I ask bravely. She visibly stiffens and keeps her eyes on her feet. This is asking about something personal and something illegal to be frank. I know that she hunts in the woods and she knows I know, but to talk about it openly is still dangerous. "I'm not going to rat you out or anything. I'm just curious." I wait for her to look at me so that she can see I'm being honest. Her eyes are darting back and forth as she thinks my question over. She doesn't look up. She doesn't speak.

"Our dad taught her," Prim answers in a small voice.

"Prim!" Katniss whispers. And then Prim stares at the ground, too.

_Damn it._ I definitely crossed a line. Her father died in the mines a few years back. I remember watching her receive a medal of honor with the rest of the families who lost someone. I remember her a few months after when she was starving to death. I'm trying to get her to like me and I bring up the worst thing that has ever happened in her life. _Nice one, Mellark._

"What you can do is amazing. I couldn't last a day out there," I laugh, but it sounds forced. I need to fix this and fast. I could go back to talking about history class, but I'd already struck out once there.

I'm struggling for the best way to handle this when I notice Prim slowing down her pace and eventually stopping. She's staring into the window of the florist. "Katniss, can I look at the flowers?" she asks without tearing her eyes away.

"Prim, we need to get home," Katniss says.

"Please? Just for a few minutes?" she begs. She gives her sister big puppy dog eyes that I know I couldn't resist.

Katniss sighs, but concedes. "Fine." Prim's eyes light up again as she rushes into the flower shop.

Katniss and I are left alone on the sidewalk. Prim is so good at being a wingman it's hard to believe she's not doing it on purpose. Katniss sighs again, drops her bag, and leans against the building. "She loves pretty things," she says as she shakes her head.

It isn't until now I notice Katniss has a scratch along the side of her face, but it's not as recent as the one on her arm. She also has a bruise on her left wrist. Where does she get these marks? Not from playing games or having fun. She gets it from the woods, from hunting. My heart swells up seeing her hurt like this, even though they're not serious wounds. I've got the leftover marks of more severe burns on my arms just from pulling things in and out of the ovens over the years. Still, I don't like it. She shouldn't have to hunt and struggle to feed her family. She's so young. She should have someone taking care of her. I could take care of her.

I lean up against the building next to her. She looks uncomfortable. And not the kind of discomfort I usually see from a girl. Generally, a girl's discomfort says something like, "I'm nervous but excited about being with you." Katniss' discomfort says, "I don't know why you're talking to me and I want you to go away."

"I'm sorry," I say gently to her.

"For what?" she replies, sounding detached. I see though it.

"For bringing up your dad."

"You didn't know."

"I didn't think," I explain. If I thought it through I would have realized where her knowledge of the woods came from. It certainly didn't come from her mother. She was from town, just like me. I wonder if Katniss knows my father and her mother almost got married. I don't think that's something I need to talk about right now. I can save it for another time; if there is another time. One thing I know she is unaware of is how long I've been keeping tabs on her. I'm not sure how to tell her without shocking her. But I have to say something because I don't think I've said anything thus far that would make her want to talk to me again. "Did you know my dad knew your dad?"

"No." She keeps her eyes trained to the ground.

"He told me once that your dad had the best singing voice around. When he sang the birds would stop to listen."

She looks up at me, her eyebrows contracted. I hope that I didn't once again cross a line. She doesn't look upset like before, but her eyes are a little glassy. I can't help staring. "That's true," she breathes.

My brain gets caught up in staring and it takes my mouth a few seconds to form words. "So…I know where you get it from."

Now she just looks confused. It's god damn adorable. "What?"

This is dangerous territory for me. I'm admitting to something I haven't admitted to anyone. I…fell for her the first time I saw her. And part of me wants her to know that only because I've been keeping it secret for so long. The other part, the rational part, knows this will send her running for the hills. However, I'm going to be honest with her. Katniss strikes me as the kind of the person who doesn't play games. "Do you remember in school when you sang a song in front of everyone? I swear the birds stopped singing then," I say vaguely, although I remember the event in much more detail.

There's a crease between her eyebrows and the corners of her mouth lift up again. "That was so long ago."

"Yeah, it was."

She doesn't say anything more, but it's not as bad as the earlier silence. There's some static between us, but it's not as tense. Can she feel it too? Were I with any other girl, this is the part when I would kiss her. There has never been a girl I wanted to kiss more. My head knows that's not going to happen right now, but this is the first time I've ever thought it might.

The bell hanging on the door of the florist shop rings as Prim exits. She's glowing and clutching a tiny bouquet of yellow flowers. Katniss sighs when she sees it. "Did you con him out of flowers again, little duck?"

"I wanted Peeta to know what a primrose looks like in case he needs inspiration for his next cake."

I push myself off the side of the building and hold my hand out to her. "Okay, let me have a good look." She hands me the little bouquet. I stare at her flowers for a few seconds, arching my eyebrows and making a big display of studying them. She bites her bottom lip and bounces on the balls of her feet. I glance over at Katniss. I'm shocked when I see the smile on her face. A real smile. The air goes out of my lungs. She's so happy to see her sister happy. I take the bouquet and tuck it behind Prim's ear. The yellow looks lovely in her blonde hair. "I think it looks much better on you than it would on any cake." She laughs, unable to contain her excitement.

No one talks for the remainder of the walk. I use my umbrella like a cane as we walk. Prim occasionally touches the flowers in her hair. I wish I had another to give to Katniss, but I have a feeling it brings her more joy to see me give her sister flowers than it would for me to give her flowers. The sidewalk turns to dirt as we reach the edge of town. I've walked far out of my way in getting back to my own house, but I don't care. This is the best way I could have spent my afternoon.

"Thank you for walking with us, Peeta Mellark," Prim says with a confident nod.

"You're welcome, Primrose Everdeen." I know Katniss won't thank me. She didn't want me coming in the first place. "I'll see you tomorrow, Katniss. In History class."

"Sure. Bye, Peeta." And there's no confusion or anger or irritation in her voice. It's just her. That's all I've ever wanted.

The pair continues on their hike back home. I stand there for a little while longer, probably too long, but I can't bear to turn back. What's going to happen tomorrow? Will anything be different? Or will she just pretend this afternoon never happened and we'll just go back to having nothing to do with each other?

Then something happens that gives me more hope than anything else that happened today. She looks back at me. She doesn't smile or anything, she just looks over her shoulder. Maybe it doesn't mean anything. Maybe she's thinking I'm strange. Maybe she's realizing how much of a stalker I really am. Or maybe she just wanted one last look and she'll spend rest the night thinking of me.

Tomorrow is going to be a good day.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: I am such a pushover. I'm expanding another one shot. I just got to thinking and decided there was a lot more of this story left to tell. It's got an outline and everything. I want to know, assuming Peeta had some courage, if he and Katniss could have been together if not for the Games. Let's explore, shall we?

Let me explain the format of this story. Remember that day off Peeta talked about in chapter one? Each chapter is going to cover that one day of the week. And it will be entirely from Peeta's point of view.

Reviews are always appreciated. Enjoy.

**Chapter 2: **

I wipe away the sweat from my forehead with the back of my arm, possibly streaking it with flour. I can't take time to look right off because I only have a few more minutes to get this finished up before I have to leave for school.

The door to the kitchen creaks. I expect to see Miche or Dad. It's neither. It's Rilee. _Perfect._

"Man, what are you doing?" Rilee asks. His eyes are entertained and curious, despite his usual aversion to the morning hours. He's got a boxful of something in his arms.

"Frosting cookies," I say absently. Almost done. Just twelve more to go.

"I see that." He sets his box of whatever down and walks around the large island counter in the center of the kitchen. He looks over my shoulder as I work. I know he's seen cookies before.

"Why are you here?" I snap at him. I don't need a distraction. I'm almost finished.

"Mom told me to drop something off. Why are you working before school?"

I finish up laying the last layer of butter cream frosting on the little round confections. Done. "I couldn't sleep," I lie. The truth is I wanted the cookies to be fresh, so I waited until the day I planned to use them. And the morning rush was the best time to bake them because I could be without supervision. Around six, Dad and Miche are done with their early morning baking and tend to the customers, giving me plenty of time to bake. Well, plenty of time when you're as good as me.

"Uh-huh," he replies warily. He scratches his chin and looks over my handiwork. Every cookie looks perfect. Not a single one burned with expertly applied frosting. Rilee wishes he had the speed and the skill to do this as quickly as I can. His shifts would go so much faster that way. "There's only eleven dozen," he muses.

I busy myself by putting a tray of cookies on a rack to free up counter space. I don't say anything in response to his observation.

"We always make twelve dozen at a time," Rilee adds. Again, I say nothing and put another tray aside. He saunters around the small kitchen, taking it in like it's his first tour of the place. Rilee has always been suspicious in nature. When he senses something is wrong it's as if you can see the gears turning in his head. Much to my chagrin, he notices the paper bag with the name "Mellark's" stamped on it next to my schoolbag. He grabs it and opens it roughly before I can stop him. He even tears the bag. Jerk. "And what are these?" he asks with a smirk.

"Those are a screwed up batch," I growl.

"They don't look screwed up. In fact, they look different from the rest." My brother. What a detective. They are different. The ones in the bag would have taken me several hours to make an entire gross of. I didn't have a cookie cutter for their unique design. But you can't make just_ one_ dozen cookies. Cookies have to be made in mass quantities. That's why I only made one dozen of the difficult pattern and opted for easy, conventional circles with the rest.

I walk around the island and reach for the bag. He pulls it out of my grasp, like we're playing a game of "Keep Away". Haven't done this since I was eight. "Rilee, seriously?" I don't even try to hide my annoyance.

"Who are they for?"

"No one." I reach for the bag again and he doesn't try to keep it from me. I check the cookies, making sure they didn't get broken when Rilee jostled them. They look fine. I fold over the top of the paper bag a few times and gently put it into my schoolbag. I'll have to go a whole day without crushing them.

Rilee leans against the counter. He crosses his arms with a look of superiority. He's so proud of himself for figuring me out. "Mom is going to be pissed if you're giving away cookies." It's not really a threat. Just a fact. The risk will be worth it though. Assuming it works.

"Then don't tell her," I hiss.

The door to the kitchen creaks open again. We both look over. Miche walks in carrying an empty tray. He immediately starts filling it up with rolls. "What's going on, guys?" he asks cheerfully. Business must be good this morning.

"Nothing. Except Peeta being a suck up," Rilee snickers.

I glare at him. Miche does not need to know about the rogue batch of cookies or who they're for. Miche would be pissed if he knew I came in early so I could sneak some cookies for my own use. He's got a much larger stake in the bakery, since this is how he earns his living, whereas Rilee and I are unpaid laborers. Luckily, Miche isn't as distrustful as Rilee and probably won't notice the order of cookies is a dozen short; as long as no one points it out to him.

"Rilee's right. You are making us look bad. Working before school and on your day off," Miche says with a natural smile. At least I have one good brother. Or one gullible brother. What sixteen year old guy has trouble sleeping? I'm surprised he bought that story, but it's one less batch of cookies he has to make. And both my brothers know mine always turn out the best.

"Please. It doesn't take much to make you guys look bad," I joke. Miche laughs and Rilee flips me off. He does that too often. It's lost its shock appeal. I peel off my apron and wipe up the last of the flour from my hands and face. "What time is it?" I ask while checking my appearance in a knife. _Eh_._ Good enough_.

"Half past seven," Miche says.

"Shit," Rilee curses. "We have to get to school."

The bakery is farther away from school than our house is. Rilee and I have to book it to get there on time, but we're in our seats before the bell rings. He doesn't ask me anything more about the cookies on the way there, thankfully. I don't need his two cents on this.

I barely listen to the lesson in Literature. It's another drama, but this one's not about the Games. Regardless, someone dies. Someone is a hero. It has some deep philosophical meaning. Whatever. It sounds like every other story. It feels like every other day, which isn't helping me out of my bad mood in the slightest. A bad mood that's been developing since last Tuesday.

I thought things would change. I really did. I am an idiot. That has become clearer and clearer since last week.

Compared to last week—or any week previous to my conversation with Katniss—my life is exactly the same, which is frustrating on several levels. It wouldn't be so upsetting except for the fact that I _did_ talk to her. I _did_ walk her home—close to her home at least. We're not just two people who happen to be the same age and go to the same school. But what are we? We're not exactly friends, but we're not enemies. Acquaintances. _Great_.

In History class the day following our introduction, I thought she'd say hello. I spent the entire school day thinking about it, preparing myself for it, rehearsing how I would respond, and then worrying about sounding too rehearsed when the moment came. When History arrived, all my expectations cracked and turned to dust. Katniss didn't even bat an eye in my direction. She just sat at her desk, stared out the window, and occasionally looked over at the teacher, as if our encounter never happened. I know because I stared at her the whole class period waiting for her to turn her head and acknowledge me. I learned nothing during class except that she has a freckle on her ear.

Although I couldn't help feeling snubbed, by the time the weekend rolled around, and not a single word had been spoken between us, I realized how irrational I was being. I can't be frustrated with her. My expectations were too high, apparently. _I_ was the one who approached _her_. And nothing about our conversation suggested she would reciprocate my actions or that she wanted me to continue. I read too much into that look she gave me as she walked into the Seam. I guess it didn't mean what I thought. It's like the Vesta thing is coming back to bite me in the ass.

So, of course Katniss is ignoring me. And still, it's not fair of me to say that. I wouldn't have called it _ignoring_ before we spoke. It just feels like that now.

However, it's a new week, a new day of freedom from the bakery, and another chance to make something happen. She may have never said she wanted me to talk to her again, but she never said I couldn't. Best of all, I have a plan. A plan that blows the umbrella ploy out of the water.

I feel surprisingly lighter by the time History rolls around. My confidence in my new plan gets me excited. I even enjoy History more than usual today. Not because of the lesson and definitely not because Katniss doesn't look at me, but because I know in just a few minutes I'll have her attention again. I scratch at my paper instead of listening. When I look down at my paper, she's smiling at me.

I head in the opposite direction of the rest of my class when the final bell rings, toward the connecting building that serves the lower grades. I haven't been in this building in a few years, but everything is the same, down to the hallway where the eleven and twelve year olds hang out. The hallway seems much smaller than I remember it. Even the ceiling feels like it's lower. I was a good foot or so shorter when I hung out here last of course.

I search through the sea of kids who are all clamoring to go home. A few stare at me as they pass. The kids from the upper grades don't come down here unless they're looking for a brother or sister. I'm looking for someone's sister, but she's not mine. I spot her chatting with a group of girls who are all the same size as her. She stands out from them. Her rosy cheeks and bright blonde hair set her apart from her friends. She's going to be quite the heartbreaker when the time comes. It is in her blood after all.

Her circle of friends is breaking up as I approach her. The girls eye me curiously and hide behind their books. Prim doesn't notice them. Her eyes light up when she sees me. If only it could be that easy with Katniss.

"Hi, Peeta," she greets.

"Hey, Prim. How are you today?"

"Good," she says with a cute lilt in her voice.

"I brought something for you," I say, immediately putting the plan into action.

"For me?"

I reach into my bag where I've been protectively harboring my illegal treats all day. "Yes. Well, maybe for your sister and your mother. But only if you want to share."

With a big smile she takes the bag. She gently shakes it. Good thing it wasn't a cake. "Cookies?" she guesses.

"Yes, they're very special cookies."

She unrolls the lip of the bag and opens it excitedly. Her eyes grow as big and round as the cookies I made this morning. "Primroses!" she shouts.

"Yes. I invented them just for you." They were a pain to make, but the outcome was nice. Tiny cookies with four heart-shaped petals; painted with bright yellow frosting and a golden yellow center. "I think they'll be a big seller," I say.

"They look just like primroses. Thank you so much." Her thanks is genuine and make the whole experience, even the getting up before six part, completely worth it. Of course, that's not the whole plan. I'm glad to give Prim a gift and I'm pleased to see she likes it, but I'm hoping for some residual benefits for myself.

"You're welcome."

"Are you going to walk with us today?" she asks.

_Prim. You are my favorite person ever._

"I'd really like to," I say. Prim does that thing where she bounces on the balls of her feet again. "If your sister doesn't mind," I add.

It's almost comedic the way both her shoulders and her face immediately deflate. "Oh," she sighs. That can't be a good sign.

"Why don't we ask her?" I suggest, trying to keep my confidence up. "And make sure you show her those cookies."

We walk through the halls back into the building for the upper grades. Katniss is leaning against the wall with her bag over her shoulder. I wonder if I should offer to take it for her today. Probably a bad idea. She'd think I was trying to steal it.

"Katniss, look!" Prim shouts when we reach her sister. "Peeta made me cookies in the shape of primroses!"

Katniss takes the bag and peers inside. She looks utterly annoyed by my presence and not at all impressed by the cookies. She tries to hide it when she sees how excited Prim is, but she's not successful. Good thing I didn't make them for Katniss.

"Prim, could you wait outside for a second? I have to talk to Peeta," she says calmly. A little too calmly, if you ask me.

I can tell Prim wants to reach for the bag of cookies, which Katniss is now holding. Her eyes get a little watery. She's thinking she'll have to give them back. I quickly reach into the bag and pull out a couple little flower-shaped cookies.

"Take a few with you," I say as I hand them to Prim. I want to assure her she's going to get to enjoy her gift.

After Prim is outside, Katniss gets that intimidating glare she falls into so easily. I'm not as rattled by it this time. It's just as scary as ever, but now I know it's not real. I've seen her smile; I've seen her vulnerable, if only for a moment. The scowl is how she protects herself. She needs someone who will actually take the time to prove his worth and earn her trust. I don't think cookies will do it, but at least it's a start.

"I can't pay for these," she whispers harshly. She must not want Prim to hear her.

I expected her to react this way given how touchy she was when I talked about repaying her for the squirrel. This is different though. "I don't want you to pay me," I reply.

Her eyes are spinning, like she didn't even hear me. "I may be able to trade something, but that won't be for at least a day. And I don't usually use my trades to get cookies," she mutters.

"Katniss," I say at a normal volume. It gets her attention. Her eyes focus on me and I hold my breath. Okay, so maybe I am still rattled by the scowl somewhat. "I don't want a trade. It wouldn't be a gift if you gave me something for them."

"A gift?" It sounds like a foreign word on her tongue. There's a crease between her eyes.

"Yeah." I chuckle, but not to make fun of her. I just adore her when she's confused. "It's free," I promise.

She glances once more at the treats, folds the bag closed, and readjusts the strap of her bag. "Why are you giving my sister cookies?" she asks with an accusing look in her eyes.

Really? She doesn't get it? I thought my plan was good, but I also thought it was pretty transparent. Rilee saw through it immediately. "Isn't it obvious?" I shrug.

"No." She blinks a few times. She waits for my answer.

How do I answer this? I want to impress your sister so I can get you to like me. That's the truth, but not something Katniss will like to hear. I change the subject. "Can I walk with you today?"

"No." She doesn't even take a second to think it over.

"Your sister already said I could."

"You didn't give her much choice if you're giving her presents. She's not rude."

"But you are?"

She narrows her eyes at me. _Oops._ She exhales through her nose like a bull about to charge. I gulp, trying to find the courage I had at the beginning of this conversation.

"Look, if you really want to pay me for the cookies, you'll let me walk with you." I appeal to her sense of fairness. I don't want to turn my gift into a bribe, but I realize this is how Kantiss thinks. Everything is a favor, a trade. Gifts are dangerous. She's afraid of being expected to pay my kindness back. It's like she doesn't understand how friendships work. "Just to the edge of town?" I plead with a smirk.

"Fine," she grumbles. She stomps off to where her sister is waiting for us.

"Don't sound so thrilled about it," I say under my breath. If she hears me, she doesn't say anything. I am happy to have this time with Katniss, but it's an uphill battle to get there. I'm already tired.

Prim is still holding the cookies I gave her in her hands. Some of the frosting melted in the sun and onto her fingers. She knew exactly what her sister was talking to me about. She didn't eat them just in case Katniss insisted she give them back. Katniss shoves the bag into Prim's hands without any explanation. Her eyes perk up again. Her whole world is restored. When you're twelve, losing a bag of cookies is the end of the world. "Are you coming with us?" she asks hopefully.

I glance at Katniss, giving her a chance to opt out. She stares at the ground and keeps readjusting her bag. "I am," I say with confidence. I bask in Prim's happiness.

No one talks for quite a while. It's like Katniss and I are giving one another the silent treatment for no good reason. It's uncomfortable for me to wait it out. I want her to say something first. I want to know that my presence isn't as grating to her as she acts. She's the one who's difficult. She's the one who—

"I feel bad eating these. They're so pretty," Prim ponders. She keeps checking the bag periodically, making sure they're still there.

I sigh. I was never any good at the silent treatment. "Don't feel bad," I tell her. "That's what they were made for. Just don't eat them all at one time. I ate too many shortbread cookies at one time once and now I can't stomach them." I hold my hand over my stomach and stick out my tongue. Prim laughs, but she's not feeling the slight nausea that rolls through me when I think about shortbread cookies. I shudder. Never again.

"That's too bad."

"It is. I really liked shortbread cookies before that. That's probably why I stuffed my face with them."

She laughs again. Everything is so easy with Prim. She accepts gifts, she smiles, she laughs, and she sincerely happy to be talking with me. It's amazing how different the two sisters are. One is soft and kind and the other is hard and guarded. Was Katniss ever like Prim? I think back on our childhoods. I remember glimpses of carefree smiles on Katniss' face. They made her whole face light up, just like it does with Prim. She was so pretty then. Light and honest. But my memory recalls very few of those smiles, and they all but disappear before she's twelve years old. Now, grown up, she's the product of losing a parent and having to suffer in poverty. She doesn't allow herself easy happiness anymore. Moreover, her greatest joy is to make her sister smile. That's the only reason she let Prim keep the cookies. I want to be able to do the same for her.

"So, how is school going for you, Prim? What's your favorite class?" I begin a new conversation, hoping I'll be able to lure Katniss in.

"Um…reading. I like listening to the stories."

Huh. I remember liking reading when I was younger now that I think about it. I can't stand the literature lessons we have now, but they weren't always so bloody and violent. "I liked reading too when I was your age. Do have Mrs. Mielke or Mr. Wells?"

"Mr. Wells."

"He's the best. Did he do his impression of the goatman yet?"

"Yes! It was so funny." Then she does her impression of Mr. Wells doing his impression, and we both laugh.

"What's your favorite class?" Prim asks with renewed interest.

"History," I answer without missing a beat. A smirk leaks onto my face and I can't make it go away.

"Last week you said history was boring," Prim says. Her memory is too good.

"It_ is_ boring, but I like the people in that class." I sneak a look at Katniss. I see her sneak a look at me, too. Her shell is staring to crack.

"That isn't a good reason," Prim admonishes. She's oblivious to this staring contest her sister and I have going on. "It sounds like you're not a very good student."

"Sometimes I'm not," I admit. I give Prim a slight nudge. "But I make a good cookie." Prim fights the grin on her face, realizing she can't argue with me until she actually tastes one. Quietly, she pulls out a single cookie, places it halfway in her mouth, and takes a bite. She chews it slowly, letting the sugar melt in her mouth.

"Mmm," she hums. She offers one to Katniss, but she declines. I can take flowers and now cookies off the list of items to give Katniss. Maybe I should get a hold of a hunting knife for her. How romantic.

Prim continues to nibble on the snacks, ending the conversation. Eventually, she's walking a good ten feet in front of Katniss and me so it's almost like we're walking alone. I sidestep one foot closer to Katniss. She shies away a foot. Katniss has her own game of "Keep Away."

I could wait and wait for her to say something first, but I know she won't. Her body language is a loud indication of that. I give up. "What did you think of History today?" Ironically enough, the moment the words leave my mouth I hope she doesn't give an answer because I have no recollection of what went on his History today. My notes aren't so much notes as much as they are a sketch of her from the neck up.

"Are you very interested in history?" she asks coolly.

"No, not really."

"Then why are you always talking about it?"

"I'm just trying to make conversation."

"You only said you wanted to walk with us, you never said we had to have a conversation." Her words are harsh, but accurate.

"I'll be more specific next time."

She huffs and swings her bag from one shoulder to the other. That one gesture says so much. She doesn't expect this to happen again, not that she expected it to happen now or last week. I suppress a laugh, realizing both our expectations have gone unfulfilled.

We reach the town square, busy as it always is this time of the day. I catch a glimpse of Rilee rushing into the bakery. He's going to be late. Mom's going to be upset. If he rats me out to get himself out of trouble, he's dead.

"So what's obvious?" Katniss suddenly chirps. Is she talking to me?

"What?"

"You said the reason you gave Prim cookies is obvious. I don't know what it is." She purses her lips in her reluctance to admit it.

Once again, I have the chance to tell her the truth. "I like Prim," I reply innocently. That's enough truth for right now. "She's sweet."

"I know that, but it can't be good business to give every sweet girl you know free baked goods."

"Is it possible for you to just accept it and say thank you?"

She rolls her eyes. We both know this isn't about her inability to accept gifts. It's about why I'm giving Prim presents; why I'm walking them home. But I can't tell her that yet. She's not ready. We need to be friends first. She needs to learn how to be a friend first.

"Thank you," she mumbles. "You made Prim's week."

I'm happy to hear that, even though Katniss doesn't sound all that excited about it. "Good. I'm glad."

"She couldn't stop talking about you last week. She goes on and on about the flowers and the cake. She checks the window of the bakery everyday to see if you've made one with her in mind."

I don't like Prim, I decide. I love Prim. I don't care if talking about me annoys Katniss. I've been on her mind, no matter how much time she spends ignoring me.

"I haven't done any cakes this week. They're always special ordered," I explain. I don't want her to think I broke a promise to Prim.

Katniss nods. She seems to understand.

"I'll let her know if something comes up," I add. I press my luck and take another step closer. Katniss doesn't move this time. Maybe she's caught up in conversation and doesn't notice. She's even relaxed somewhat. She's not constantly readjusting her bag and her forehead is smooth. But she is a hunter after all. Perhaps she's lulling me into a false sense of security.

"Why did you wait until today to give Prim the cookies?"

At least this question I can answer without incriminating myself. "I don't work on Tuesdays. It's the only day during the week I have afternoons to myself."

"Oh."

"What days do you…work?" I suppose I could have said "hunt," but that didn't work out well for me last week. It may be better to keep things vague.

"Sundays. Whenever I need to."

"Must be nice out there." I gesture my head in the direction of the trees. You can just see them over the buildings in the square. I've always been wary of the woods. Sometimes the kids at my lunch table dare each other to go out there, but nobody ever does it. We'd probably fall off a cliff or get attacked by a bear the second we got over the fence. At the same time, there is a temptation and a curiosity about the woods. What would it be like to be in a place that isn't surrounded by an electric fence? I'm jealous Katniss knows what it's like. "Peaceful, right?"

"Usually."

"Bakery is awful. It's hot, sweaty, customers yell at you when you mess up their order, and you get burned constantly."

"But you like to do the cakes, don't you?"

Hey, look at that. She's been listening. "Yeah, I guess that part is fun. Is it fun out there?"

"Fun?" Another foreign word falls out of her mouth.

"In the woods. Is it fun?" I repeat, but she still doesn't understand the question.

"It's not about…fun," she stammers. "If I don't get anything my family doesn't eat."

I've offended her again, but I didn't explain this correctly. "Right. Sorry. I don't mean to say what you do isn't dangerous or anything," I apologize. "But I imagine that it's freeing at the same time, right?"

"I don't know what you mean," she hedges.

"I mean, you're not dependant on anyone else."

Her forehead crinkles. I don't blame her. I jumped from woods to fun to danger to freedom without explaining how it all connects. "My family makes a good living with the bakery," I begin. She's looking up at me, genuinely interested in what I'm saying. I finally have her attention and I'm unsure of the words. If I were to explain this to any other girl, she'd be shocked and maybe even turn me into the Peacekeepers. However, Katniss is a criminal. There's no other way around that. It's the Capitol's fault she is what she is. They cause her poverty and force her to break the law. Maybe she'll understand. "If there's a flour shortage or if the Capitol decides to ration our sugar, we don't have any options. We're out of business. We starve. But no matter what, you can always provide for your family."

"Yes," she breathes.

"The Capitol determines whether or not we live. So, while it may not be fun. At least you have to chance to just…have some control of your life." I'm forced to whisper this to her. I can't help the feeling that someone is suddenly going to grab me by the shoulders and force me into the stocks for my treasonous statement. However, Katniss appears completely unfazed. In fact, she smiles to herself, just barely. My guess is she's amused by my plight. Who am I to complain after all?

"Too bad it's illegal," she laughs nervously.

Did she just make a joke? I do my best to hide my shock and laugh with her. This is Katniss without her shell. I like her this way.

We've stopped walking. I didn't even notice. We're at the border of the Seam. Prim is standing beside us, moving her head back and forth between us like she's watching a tennis match.

I clear my throat and gesture to the now infamous bag of cookies. "So how many did you eat just on the walk home?"

"Not many," she says.

"Let me see." I tilt the bag, and sure enough, it looks like she only ate three or four. "All right, but remember what I said about stuffing your face."

"I'll remember. Will we see you again next week?"

I look over to Katniss for some kind of confirmation, but she doesn't give me one. Stares at her feet instead. Too much to hope for. "I'm not sure. Why don't we play it by ear?"

"Okay," she says softly, hiding her disappointment well. Then she takes a small step toward me and wraps her skinny arms around my waist.

"Oh!" I say in surprise. Katniss shakes her head, not surprised at all. I have brothers. We don't do this a whole lot. I tentatively wrap my arms around her shoulders and give her a pat on the back. I catch Katniss' eyes with my own. I'm glad to see she's not threatened or bothered by the small display of affection. That means a lot. I'm sure of it. This is her _sister_. If she trusts me with Prim…well, it must mean something.

"I'll see you soon," I promise. She lets go. "Bye, Katniss."

"Bye, Peeta." Just like last week, she takes her sister by the arm and leads her on home. I decide to turn around a little bit sooner this week. If she gives me another look, who knows what my head will do with it.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Thank you to everyone who reviewed or added this story. And remember to visit the Countdown to Mockingjay site to read the contest entries and vote for your favorites! http:/sites(dot)google(dot)com/site/countdowntomockingjay/

This chapter is dedicated to IsForWinners who made a fantastic banner for this story. You can find the link on my profile.

Reviews are always appreciated. Enjoy!

**Chapter 3: **

_Shit! Shit! Shit!_ I hate Treder. He kept us late in gym today. And of course he had us play field hockey outdoors because the weather is nice, except for the fact that it rained last night and the field is mostly mud. Everybody was a mess and there was no way I could go without a shower. It made me late by about twenty minutes. I'm running across campus from the gym to the academic building, working up another sweat even though I got out of the shower. I must look nuts. The few people that are still on campus are sauntering around because there's nothing to be late for. School is done for the day.

One of the clocks reads twenty-seven minutes passed three. There's no way she would wait that long. Not even if Prim asked her to. But I promised Prim I would see her again. I don't want her to think I'm blowing her off. The hallway for my grade is empty. There's no way she's going to be there. Why am I hurrying like this? There's no chance. I skid to a stop when I turn the corner toward the exit.

She's there.

My sprint catches up with me and my heart is pounding in my chest. I'm baffled. Katniss is standing in the same place she stands everyday as she waits for Prim. That's not an unusual sight. However, the clock above her head reads 3:29. She and Prim never stay this late.

I attempt to calm my panting while simultaneously thinking up an excuse for being out of breath. I walk quickly though. I don't want to push my luck anymore than I already have.

She straightens up when I'm within a comfortable distance. She holds tightly onto the strap of her bag. I'm carrying that bag today. She could be hauling bricks for all I know, but I've got to be courteous somehow.

I swallow. "Hi," I exhale.

"Hello," Katniss replies softly. She's not smiling, but for once, she doesn't meet me with a scowl right off the bat. That has got to be a victory if I ever saw one. "Why are you out of breath?"

I swallow again. "I just got out of gym." It's always half-truths with this girl. But I guess that's how things usually go when you're just starting off with a girl. It's the only typical thing about our relationship. I glance down the hall and toward the open exit doors. Katniss and I are completely alone. Where is my wingman? "Where's Prim?" I ask.

"She wasn't feeling well last night. My mother kept her home from school," Katniss explains.

"Oh. I'm sorry to hear that." _I am_ sorry. I tuck my hands in my pockets and kick at a crack in the floor. So much for walking Katniss home. I try to push down the selfish part of me that is lamenting right now, but it's not easy. "It wasn't from too many cookies, was it?"

She cracks a small smile and shakes her head. "No, no."

I do feel bad for Prim. No one likes being sick, especially in the warmer months. Maybe I could send her some muffins or something. There aren't many items in the bakery that are good for illnesses; nothing equivalent to the effect a bowl of chicken soup can have. I notice Katniss adjust her bag, the way she does when she's uneasy. I'm reminded that we're completely alone in the hall, perhaps in the whole building. The clock reads 3:36. No one stays this late. "You waited for me?" I say the words the same time the realization dawns on me. Katniss waited for me. There were no plans or bribes involved. She knew I would come and she waited.

"I didn't want to be rude," she says proudly.

"You? Never," I say sarcastically.

She rolls her eyes and huffs. "Prim asked me to tell you so you wouldn't worry."

"Of course she did," I mutter. It's too much to assume Katniss wanted to see me. I try not to let it get to me, but it's pointless. Everything this girl does gets to me.

It's so quiet in the hall I can hear the clock ticking. Katniss can hear it too. "I should go," she mumbles. She takes a few steps backwards.

I reach for her arm. "Wait!" I say hastily. She flinches before I can grab her. I pull my hand back as suavely as possible and put it back in my pocket. I'm doubt it looks as casual as I'd like. "Do…do you have any plans for the day?" I stumble.

"Why?"

_Because, whether she meant to or not, Prim gave me an opportunity and I'm not going to waste it. _

"Why don't we do something?" I suggest, like I would with any other girl.

One of Katniss' eyebrows lifts up. "Do something?"

Clearly, I need to stop relying on clichéd expressions with Katniss. Vague requests only confuse her. And as much as I enjoy seeing that look on her face, it's not good for communication. "I don't have to work. Do you have to hunt or anything?"

"No. I—"

"Great," I interrupt. I immediately scan my brain for an activity for us because I doubt Katniss will make a suggestion. "We could walk around the square." Girls always like that. Window shopping and running into their friends just makes their day.

"No. I can't do that," Katniss says. She takes another step toward the door.

Right. Now that I take a second to think, I doubt Katniss would care what items are for sale in the textile shop. I don't care much for that either. What does Katniss like? She likes…being outdoors. "We could go to the park." There's a nice park in town. One of the more pleasant things to see in Twelve. The grass is just turning green. There are soccer fields and even a few trees. So many names surrounded by arrow-pierced hearts are carved into those trees. Kids go there all the time.

Katniss shakes her head.

Wait, that park is in town. Katniss has never been there. Why would she? She probably doesn't feel comfortable in town at all. The only times I ever see her is when she's hauling her bag of dead animals around. I wrack my brain for an answer. There is one other park. I think it's a park anyway. It's not kept up or anything. I've seen it, but never hung out there. "How about the park in the Seam?"

"No!" she answers, sounding startled by the idea.

She may be uncomfortable in town, but _I_ don't mind going to the Seam. It's different there. It's not as scary as I thought it was when I was young. My mother would have you think it was the third level of hell. I've been to the Seam maybe five or six times, mostly because my friends were curious. They make bets about going to Seam from time to time; daring each other to go to that black market spot where all the illegal trading goes on. And some of them are brave and stupid enough to go, usually to buy liquor. But I'm not suggesting to Katniss we do anything like that. I know the Seam is full of good people, Katniss and Prim for instance. But I don't ask again, because the appalled look on her face convinces me it's a bad idea.

I try to see the common thread in my ideas to figure out why she's so adverse to them. _She just doesn't want to hang around with you, idiot._ Well, sure, maybe. I try to ignore that thought.

Another notion pops into my head. All these places are swarming with people. I'd be thrilled to be seen with Katniss, but she may not feel the same way. That hurts. I admit it. That would explain why she ignores me in class day after day. But why wouldn't she want to be seen with me? Not to brag, but I'm a well-liked guy. It might have something to do with Hawthorne. It's possible she and him might have something going on. But she hasn't said anything about him, and she can be friends with whomever she likes. Then again, she may not want to be friends with me at all. She only waited because Prim asked her to.

This is way too much to consider when I'm merely trying to ask a girl to spend an hour with me so we can become better acquainted. I reach for the only viable option I have left. "We could go to my house." I brace myself for the "no".

Katniss blinks a couple times. She tilts her head to the side. What is going on her head?

"Your house?" she finally says.

"No one will be there," I say without thinking. She looks down at the floor. _Damn it_. That probably sounded like I wanted…_geez_. "I mean, my brothers and my parents are at the bakery right now for the rush. We can have tea and scones," I rattle off. Tea and scones? What the hell? I sound like my mother inviting over one of her friends. Wow, do I know how to show a girl a good time or what?

Katniss sways from side to side. She looks wistfully out the exit. "I really should go home."

"Katniss, please?" We've come to that point. The point where I beg. It's happened three times now, and as much as I may value my dignity, I do it anyway. And I'll probably do it next week. And the week after that. Because I'm an idiot, a masochist. Because I know if I suffer through this eventually I'll get to that point where the shell is gone and she smiles at me like that harsh part of her personality doesn't exist. I sigh and suck it up. Even this is preferable to not talking to her at all. "If at any point you're having a miserable time you will be free to leave without any explanation."

"I could leave right now without any explanation," she says coolly.

I shrug. "True."

Katniss turns and slowly walks toward the exit. I hang my head in defeat. I should have guessed she wouldn't be all that impressed with the begging. I miss my wingman. I hear the squeak of her shoes and I look up. She's standing in the threshold of the open doors, her body becoming a silhouette against the bright sunlight.

"Are you coming?" she asks.

I don't even answer because I'll screw it up. I'm beside her faster than I would care to divulge and smiling way too big. This girl makes me crazy. This girl probably thinks I'm crazy.

We walk several blocks, passing houses instead of people. Campus is empty and we don't need to walk through the square so there's nothing to see but the houses. They're all the same; painted white and beige to further emphasize that they're not a part of the Seam and away from the coal dust. Although, they require a lot of maintenance because of it, and depending on the street you live on, you may or may not be expected to keep up with it.

Katniss is quiet as she takes in the view. There isn't anyone around. Most people are still at work. There's no one to see us. I really want to ask if the risk of being seen was the reason she didn't want to go to the park or to the Seam, but I hold back. Part of me doesn't want to know the answer.

I don't mind the silence as much as I did on our last two encounters. She doesn't appear to be annoyed or angry with me for once. I notice her hand dangling at her side. It's just there, teasing me. My fingers flex with the urge to take her hand. If only I could be sure she wouldn't jump when I did it. I shove my hands in my pockets instead.

I have to start talking or I'm going to lose it. "How was your day?" I say through a nervous cough. It's more or less small talk, which I hate, but sometimes that's the only place to start.

"It was fine," she says. Her eyes continue to scan the houses.

I wait for her to say something else, but she doesn't. Katniss. Little Miss Conversationalist. She never makes it easy on me. This is much harder without Prim. "My day was fine, too. History test was tough today, but I didn't study much for it."

She peers over at me. A smirk on her lips. "Not at all?"

"I can't concentrate when it comes to History." _For a lot of reasons._

"Prim's right. You are a bad student," she says haughtily.

"I wasn't planning on being a history teacher." I'm going to be a baker. That's all there is to it. It's not a bad job though. I'm good at it. I could make a good living at it.

A piece of hair falls out of her braid. She tucks it behind her ear. "I didn't do well on that test either."

"There goes your career in teaching."

"There wouldn't be much point to it anyway," she muses. I'm unsure of what she means. "Who knows if anything they tell us is true?"

I'm shocked. Not as what she said because I've had that thought before as well, but at the fact that she said it. She says a treasonous thing like it's no big deal. I guess the things I said last week about the Capitol stuck with her. She doesn't think I'll go to the Peacekeepers about it. Although, if I wanted to go to the Peacekeepers, informing them of her activity in the woods would be a much bigger crime. Other girls don't talk like this. No one talks like this. It amazes me. "You think they're making up our history?"

"It all comes out of the Capitol. Do you trust them?"

"Not really."

"So there isn't much point to studying for the tests." She smirks. Who knew we'd have an interesting conversation about History class of all things? That was our go-to small talk topic.

The conversation has finally started to flow and something else that happened today occurs to me. "I'll tell you what's truly pointless, field hockey. I got hit in the head with a hockey stick during gym today." I rub a spot on the back of my head. I wince. It's still pretty tender. I'd forgotten about it in the rush to see if Katniss would still be there.

Katniss sort of laughs. When she sees me cringe, she stops. "Are you okay?"

"I'll live. I guess." Treder didn't even say anything when it happened. Jerk. I'm so glad this is my last semester of gym.

"Let me see it." She touches my shoulder, forcing me to a standstill. I can't really see what she's doing because she's standing partially behind me. She lifts up on her tiptoes. I lean over to compensate for the difference in our heights. Her fingers brush through my hair. I swallow. I can't believe it. She wouldn't even come near and me and now she's got her fingers running through my hair, a little bit. It's clearly medical. I'm not complaining. "There is a bump there." I knew that, but whatever. She sinks back down to her normal height. I'm still leaning over. "Did you give him a good knock back?"

"Nah. I wouldn't want to really hurt the guy," I joke. I have the ability. I'm no weakling, and I may have felt like giving the kid who hit me a whack in the moment, but it passed quickly. I don't have it in me I guess.

"You should put a cold compress on it," she recommends. She steps back.

I remember to stand up straight. I touch the spot she just had her fingers on. "Your mother teach you that?"

Her eyes narrow at me just a little bit. "You know she's a healer?"

"Uh, yeah. Doesn't everyone?" The answer is no. Not everyone knows that. People from the Seam, sure, but not the people from town. Seeking help from a woman in the Seam would be a last resort for most people around here. Luckily, she doesn't push the issue. And even more luck, we're at my house.

"We're here," I note. I lead her through a side door instead of the front. The front door is just for guests who don't know that we use the side door because it goes right into the kitchen. If we came in through the front door, we'd risk getting dirt on my mother's living room floor. I think about giving her a tour of the house, but decide against it. For most, our house wouldn't be something to brag about, but with Katniss, she might think I was trying to rub it all in her face. It's really hard to know where I stand with this girl at times.

"Make yourself at home," I say. I sound awkward. I've never had a girl here before. I usually use dates as an excuse to get out of the house. I go to the stove and get a quick fire going for the tea. I feel awkward. I put the tea kettle on the stovetop and find the scones. The scones are eight days old, but if you soak them in the tea they're not so bad. I still feel embarrassed serving them.

I step away from the stove and lean back against the countertop. I watch Katniss walk around my kitchen. And it's so bizarre. She's here. In my house. She's adorable, looking at my mother's knick knacks with a crinkle between her eyebrows. She takes interest in a large fireplace that takes part of a wall. It's the only nice thing in our house. We don't always have wood to burn in it, despite being surrounded by a forest. She touches a black pot that hangs next to the hearth with her fingers, making it sway and creak. She covers her mouth with her hand. I recognize the gesture from a million other girls. I've never seen her do it.

"What are you laughing at?"

"Nothing." The other girls always say that, too.

"Water is heating up. Would you like to sit down?"

We both take a seat at the kitchen table. The table has been in the family for a long time according to my dad. The entire table top is smooth from decades of use. Thousands of loaves of bread have been kneaded here. She sits with perfect posture in her chair while I have my elbows on the table. My mother would scold me. In fact, she'd chew me out like never before if she knew I had a girl in the house, let alone a girl from the Seam. I don't want to think about that just now. "So, what do you think?" I ask nonchalantly.

"It's very nice," she says politely, channeling her inner Prim. I can only imagine what she really thinks of my mother's carved rooster collection.

I readjust so my chin rests in my palm. "It's like every other house on the street."

She leans back in her chair and loses a bit of her posture. Her shoulders sag. She pulls her braid over one shoulder and plays with the tail end of it and it's just…it's perfect.

"Don't move," I say suddenly. I start dashing around the kitchen, opening and closing drawers like mad.

"What?" she asks in alarm.

I find what I'm looking for: a small slice of paper that doesn't have anything else written on it and a pencil that needs to be sharpened. Oh well. It'll work. "Don't move," I repeat. I sit back down at the table.

"Peeta—"

"Don't talk either."

Her eyes dart around, not understanding what I'm doing. I don't blame her. I must look nuts, for the second time today. I prop the paper up on a cutting board and start scratching away. She eventually resumes her position, choosing to ignore me and my insanity. I look up at her and down at my paper, recording the sight. I've never studied Katniss _this_ close. I realize that sounds creepy, but it's not in objectification, not always. The details of her appearance tell so much about her story. Her fingers are callused from hunting and the skin on the back of her hands is slightly chapped, still recovering from the cold winter. Her hair is glossy and layered in that intricate pattern she wears everyday because it's practical and covers the fact that she must go several days without washing it. Her neck is long and elegantly proportioned, but there's a scratch extending several inches from her ear. If I asked about it I wonder if she'd tell me. Her lips are full and soft; there isn't a thing wrong with them. I can't see her eyes because she's staring down at her hair, but I'm sure they'd have something to say.

I stop when the tea kettle starts to whistle. I take it off the burner and grab a couple cups. I don't like tea much, but my mother always makes it when we have guests. Katniss is staring curiously at the drawing when I set the cups and the kettle down. She looks like she's afraid to touch the little scratching.

I push it toward her. "You can keep that."

She pushes back her chair violently. I think she scratched the floor. Her hands are in fists and she's absolutely seething. I've known people who don't appreciate art, but still.

"Peeta, what do you want?"

"Huh?'

"Whatever you want just tell me what it is! Some kind of favor?"

"Favor?"

"Yes, to pay you back for the bread."

"What bread?" I shout. My head is absolutely reeling.

"The bread you gave me."

I make a definitive gesture for her to slow down. "You're going to have to add some more words to your sentences."

"The bread you knocked into the fire so that it would burn and you should have thrown it to the pigs but you gave it to me."

_What…oh._ "You mean from when we were kids?"

"Yes!" she scoffs, like it's taken me ages to get with the picture.

This hasn't been on my mind in a long time. It was never on my mind when I decided to talk to her. And all this time she's thought that I wanted something from her. I do want her friendship, but not as a result of some debt she needs to pay. That's how she thinks. Everything is a transaction. It's really getting frustrating. "Katniss, I don't care about that. I mean, I'm glad it helped you, but you don't owe me anything. That needs to be very clear."

Katniss runs her finger down the length of the strap of her bag that she never set down. "I'll always owe you," she whispers.

"Why?"

"It didn't help me, it saved me. I would be dead if not for that bread."

"Then I'm really glad I did it." I stand up, but I don't know what to do now that I'm standing. I choose to step closer to her, but she shies away. "But I didn't do it so I could get some favor from you five years down the road. I did it because you were…" I'd never seen a starving person before that night. And to see _her_. The girl that I cared about digging through my parent's garbage cans. "You needed it. That's all."

Katniss' eyes drop to the floor. I don't know if she's accepted what I have to say. I hope she does. She can't owe me. Not always. We'll never be friends. We'll never be anything.

"You had a welt on your face," she says without lifting her eyes from the floor.

I unconsciously wipe at the spot where the welt used to be. "Oh yeah, I remember that part, too."

"Has your mother always been a witch?"

My mouth falls open. "Did you just call my mother a witch?"

Her head pops up. Her eyes are a little panicked. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to say—"

"It's okay," I assure her. My mother. Witch. Whatever.

She glances over her shoulder toward the fireplace. She smiles bashfully at me. "She has a cauldron." She waits for my reaction. I can either be offended or I can laugh. And undoubtedly, I need to laugh. I laugh because we were just yelling at each other like we had a fight and we're not even really friends and my witch mother has a cauldron and it's all so ridiculous. I fall back into my chair. She laughs with me. Nothing has ever felt so good.

The laughter passes. I wait for her to sit back down, but she doesn't. The hot water is still sitting on the table. The scones are untouched. That's probably a good thing. They taste like rocks.

"I should get home."

This time I don't fight her. It's past four and likely that Miche or Dad will be home soon. "Okay. Tell Prim to get well soon."

She makes her way toward the door. I stand up like a good host and walk with her. I'm sure she could have made the five foot walk on her own. "I will," she promises. She pauses at the threshold. I'm only inches away. It reminds me of dropping other girls off at their houses at the end of a date. Usually, I'm thinking of whether or not I should go for a kiss. I shouldn't even let the consideration enter my mind at this point. I'll only be disappointed.

Katniss bites her bottom lip. She doesn't know how teasing a gesture like that is. "Does she still…?" she asks tentatively.

I don't know what she means. She answers by brushing her cheek with her fingers. Oh. The welt. "No. Not since we got to be taller than her." I try to smile or something, but I can't. It's not funny.

She nods for some reason. I wonder why she wants to know.

"I would never do that," I blurt out.

She looks up at me. "What?"

"Hit a kid. I'd never do that. I'd never hurt anyone." _I'd never hurt you._

She nods again, her face is unreadable. "No. You wouldn't." The door is pushed open and she steps out into the street. I can only see her for a few seconds until she's obscured by the neighbor's house and out of sight.

I feel exhausted. I leave the hot water and the uneaten scones and trudge upstairs. I'm shocked by the sudden pain in the back of my head when I lay down on my bed. Oh yeah. I get up again, run a rag under the cold tap in the bathroom, and hold it against the bump. It feels better.


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: Wow! The reaction to the last chapter was epic. Thank you to everyone who reviewed.

This chapter is rated for adult language.

Reviews are always appreciated. Enjoy.

**Chapter 4:**

I'm not late today. Both of my girls are there. _My girls_. I wonder what Katniss would say if she heard that. Prim would like it. Maybe I'll test it out on her first.

After the eye-opening experience Katniss and I had last week, I have high hopes for whatever comes next. And when I say "high hopes," what I mean is I have relatively low expectations. It's more like, I hope Katniss will lighten up, reveal the girl under the shell with less provocation. And I think she will, as long as she believes what I told her last week. I understand why she was so hostile to me. She thought I was trying to get something from her because of the bread I gave her in the past. But things are different now. She knows the truth; well, she knows some truth. She knows enough truth for right now.

I tackle my way through the thinning crowd to get to the Everdeen girls. Prim's eyes light up and she bounces on the balls of her feet when she sees me. Katniss leans against the wall. Her eyes don't light up. In fact, she looks as sullen as usual. She casts her glance to the floor. It's not very encouraging. I focus on Prim for the time being.

"Peeta! I brought you a present," Prim says impatiently before I can even get a greeting in. Her cheeks are flushed with enthusiasm. She's been waiting for this moment all day, maybe since the last time I saw her. Katniss rolls her eyes, but offers the slightest of grins to her sister. No one could be sullen when Prim is so excited.

I won't disappoint Prim. I smile big and bounce on my own feet once. "A present? For me?" This will be a good opportunity. I can show Katniss how to graciously accept a gift. I expect a drawing or a hand-written card or something. Sweet little girl stuff.

"Yes, I'm sorry I couldn't give it to you last week. I was sick," Prim apologizes as she digs through her schoolbag.

"Your sister mentioned that," I reply, but say nothing more because I doubt Katniss told Prim about going to my house. Katniss pushes a stray piece of hair behind her ear and readjusts the strap of her bag. She keeps her eyes on Prim. Yup. She definitely didn't tell Prim. "Are you feeling better?" I ask politely.

"Much better." She beams at me, finds the gift, and presents it to me in her little hands. "Here." It's not a card or a drawing. It's some kind of plant? No. I don't know what it is. It's something wrapped in leaves. I hold my hand out and she places it in my palm. I still don't know what it is. Prim notices. "Open it," she orders with a giggle.

I peel away some of the leaves from the little bundle. They stick to whatever is inside. There's a soft, white mound under the leaves. It smells strong and kind of like…well, like the outdoors.

"It's goat cheese," Prim illuminates. "I make it with milk from my goat, Lady. It tastes wonderful with bread."

And I don't know what to say. Prim is smiling and excited and she gave me cheese. She gave me food. Food she prepared herself and could stand to eat given how skinny she is. Food she could have sold or traded. It's a small amount, only enough for one person, but still, every little bit counts. I don't know what to say. "Oh, wow," I manage, sounding artificial. Prim is delightedly oblivious. She's still smiling. She thinks I'm impressed and overwhelmed by her gift. I _am_ overwhelmed, but not for the reason she thinks. It's not I'm that ungrateful it's just…I don't know. "Thank you, Prim," I say, reminding myself to just be a friend and accept her gesture, but I feel uneasy about it. Katniss eyes me closely, and that doesn't help. I quickly cover the cheese up again and put it in my bag.

"How was everyone's day?" I ask to change the subject. I don't give Katniss a chance to tell me I can't walk with them. It's a given by now, right? She doesn't fight me on it anyway. Prim takes the lead and Katniss and I walk on either side of her. Prim is chatty, as usual.

"My day was going great until reading class," Prim grumbles, but it's not all that convincing. Even when she's complaining she sounds soft and sweet. There's no way to drive the sweet out of this girl.

"Hold on, I thought you liked reading?" We pass through the exit doors and are hit with a cool breeze. It's not as warm as it has been in past weeks. Prim and I tug our jackets closer around us. Katniss doesn't.

"I did until today," Prim pouts. She's even got the lip thing going. She might be too old for that sort of thing, but I don't mind it. It's Prim. She gets away with it.

"What happened?" I ask dramatically. I sound overly concerned and once again, artificial. Katniss sees it. I can tell by the way she bites at her grin. She may not always enjoy our conversations, but she likes listening to me talk to her sister.

Prim continues her explanation. She doesn't notice the falseness in my voice because to her, overt concern is legitimate. It's a very serious situation. "Last week we were assigned to write a poem about one of our favorite things. And I wrote about my cat, Buttercup."

Of course her cat's name is Buttercup. I wouldn't be surprised if she had a pig named Daffodil and a turtle named Sugarlumps. "Did you get a bad grade?" I inquire.

"No. My grade was fine." She shoves her hands in her pockets, pretending to be modest. She probably got an A on the assignment.

"Then what's the problem?"

"Today, Mr. Wells made me stand up and read my poem in front of the whole class," she moans, exuding the kind of look that says, "feel sorry for me." I remember Mr. Wells doing the same thing when I was Prim's age. I even recall being asked to do it. I wrote a poem about drawing with a brand new box of pencils. And yeah, people snickered at me when I read it aloud. After that I stopped trying so hard. Once you hit the sixth grade, attention like that becomes a deterrent, instead of encouragement. Prim is different. She tries hard. She gets A's. I'm sure she deserves them. She needs to be reminded of this.

"He _made_ you? Or did he think your poem was so good he wanted you to share your brilliance with everyone else?" I nudge her like I did week before last. She fights a smile, sticking out her bottom lip again.

"I don't think my poem was brilliant," Prim mutters.

"I'm sure it was. Mr. Wells doesn't have the dumb kids read their stuff in front of class." Prim merely shrugs in response. And a weird part of me likes seeing her this way. All dejected about something so small. It's like she's unaware of how hard the world is yet. She's lucky to have that kind of innocence. It's a rare thing. I glance at Katniss and appreciate how warm her eyes are, despite the steely color of them. She appears relaxed and just as amused as I am about Prim's predicament. Katniss lost her innocence by the time she was Prim's age, but she won't let that happen to Prim. Furthermore, it happens to be those sweet, innocent people who are the most fun to tease. I lean closer to Prim, my face hovers close to her ear, and I murmur, "Will you read me your poem?"

Prim's horrified face snaps towards me. "No," she says, crossing her skinny arms over hey chest. Where have I heard that before?

I stand up straight again. I hear Katniss laugh through her nose. She covers her mouth—like she did last week with the cauldron thing. I wink at Katniss, so she knows it's all in fun. Her smile kind of falters when I do that. I can't actually see it because her hand shields half her face, but I can tell. She's got that crease in between her eyes. That same crease she gets when she questions what I'm doing, which happens to be more than half the time we've spent together thus far. Who knew she'd be so taken aback by a wink? I'll tell you who. Me. I should have known because other girls would blush at that kind of thing. And Katniss doesn't do what other girls do. I'm learning.

I give my attention back to Prim since I've got a good rapport going with her. "What if I said please?" I ask.

"I'd still say no," Prim says haughtily. She lifts up her chin and takes a few quick steps so she's walking ahead of us. I take advantage and drift a little closer to Katniss. She doesn't shy away or step to the may not have noticed I moved, but whatever.

_Once again, I owe my wingman. _

"Aw, and I thought you were my girl," I whine. Prim turns her head around; her eyes are softer than before. I knew she'd like the pet name. I give her the absurd pouty face, but it's not effective. She purses her lips and twists back around, keeping her proud chin up. Her blonde hair bounces with each determined step.

I sigh dramatically. My shoulders sag with mock disappointment. Another cool wind picks up. Quite a few people in the square rush into shops to get out of the cold. It's not that cold, but we've been spoiled by the recent good weather.

"With eyes that shine like a Harvest moon," Katniss suddenly recites. It's the first thing she's said all afternoon and the oddest thing she's ever said in general.

Prim comes to a standstill just as we're about to pass by the textile shop. She faces us and her big blue eyes are seething. "Katniss!" she shouts, but it's not scary. She's like an angry kitten. She bares her teeth, but she's still cute.

"Glowing in the darkness, observing the black room," Katniss continues with a soft lilt in the voice.

"You're being mean," Prim whines.

_Oh. The poem_. "No, no. I'm enjoying it," I cut in, trying to reassure her.

Katniss smiles and brushes the stray hair back again. The wind is really starting to pick up. There are some dark clouds rolling in too. Of all days not to bring an umbrella.

"I'm afraid that's all I can remember." Katniss shrugs. We both look at Prim expectantly. Katniss has already given the first two lines. Prim can't leave us without the rest.

Prim bites her bottom lip and kicks at the ground a few times. She stares the sidewalk for several seconds, sighs, and finally relents. However, she says it fast and with no emotion whatsoever. She's not happy to recite the poem. "His eyes find light I cannot see. He scouts the room for hidden enemies. It's there. He strikes. He saved us all. From something menacing, gray, and small." Her face glows a little red, whether it's from anger or embarrassment, I can't say. Without another word, she turns around and trudges forward.

"That's very good," I say. There's no dishonesty in my voice. I liked her little poem. "I feel like it could also be about your sister." Hunter. Scouting for enemies. Yeah. It fits. I do something very brave and give Katniss a nudge with my elbow, just like I do with Prim. Katniss narrows her eyes at me. No surprise there. But she doesn't hit back, thankfully.

"I don't hunt mice." Katniss states in her defense. She raises her chin up confidently, much like Prim does. It's fun to see the mannerisms they share.

We come to a lull in the conversation. It happens. Katniss remains well within arm's length of me. I'm pretty satisfied with that. See what I mean about relatively low expectations? She keeps her eyes on the people and the buildings. Always hunting. Prim stays ahead of us, still a little peeved at us both. She drags her fingers along the brick facings of the buildings. I'm getting more comfortable with the silence between us. It's not as tense and emotionally charged as it was in the beginning. Once again, I'm thankful for last week. We got things out in the open and the baggage that was keeping us apart is gone. Some of the baggage anyway. There's more there on my part. I'm willing to share it with her, but only when I'm sure she's not going to run away. When it's going to make her happy to hear it. I'm afraid getting to that point could take a long time because telling anyone that you've had a crush on them since age five is a big bomb to drop. Ah, well. It will be worth it.

Suddenly, Prim perks her head up. She turns around and walks backwards so she can see us both. I pay attention to what's coming so she doesn't trip. "Katniss' birthday is this Saturday," she says cheerfully.

Katniss scowls. And I know Prim didn't tell me to just to share news. She said it to get back at her sister for having her recite the poem.

"Oh. Happy birthday," I say with a little enthusiasm.

"Thanks," Katniss mutters without looking at me.

I want to be more excited, but it's apparent Katniss didn't want me to know about her birthday. Why shouldn't I know? We're friends. We're kind of friends. We're on the path to being friends. Who am I kidding? Maybe I'm nothing to Katniss. I'm just the guy who entertains Prim so she lets me hang around.

"Do you have any big plans?" I ask.

"Not at the moment," she answers coolly. This wasn't a question she wanted me to ask nor is it a topic she wishes to discuss. And it's not fair. I tell her things about myself. I tell her how my family eats stale food and what my mother was like when I was a kid. I shared it all freely. I'd answer any question she asked and she won't even tell me about her birthday. Prim however, is an open book about it.

"The Hawthornes usually come over for our birthdays. Do you know them?" Prim asks.

Both Katniss and I stiffen up. I barely notice it in my peripheral vision. I know why I'm bothered, but I can't be sure why she is. Not unless, there's something she hasn't told me. "Not really," I reply to Prim. I know the oldest one, Gale. He's got some siblings, but I couldn't tell you which ones are his.

"We have a feast," Prim describes with a dramatic wave of her arms. "Bread, strawberries, cheese, milk, and whatever Gale hunts. On my birthday we had a turkey."

"Prim, that's _enough_," Katniss abruptly scolds.

Prim's face loses all its animation. Even I'm taken aback by Katniss' sudden outburst. Prim's day isn't getting any better. She turns back around and keeps her chin to her chest.

"Well, that sounds fun," I mumble. No one says any different. No one invites me to the party. Is that why Katniss didn't want to talk about it? Did she think I would expect to be invited? She didn't want me to come because her boyfriend would be there. Or she didn't want me to come because she doesn't like me. Or both.

Birthdays are one of the more pleasant memories of my childhood. I always got a cake with a different theme of decoration every year, until I was about thirteen and my mother said birthdays are for children, and I wasn't a child. But the cakes I remember. One year it was the jungle, another one was a lake, and yet another was soccer. When I was a kid I would beg my dad to tell me what the theme was going to be for a month, and he never revealed the secret. I'm glad he didn't because the surprise was the best part of it. We didn't have a feast per say, but we'd have some sort of special game for dinner and the bread would be fresh. However, I almost wish it wasn't with the way my mother would remind us over and over to be grateful for it. I was grateful, but she also insinuated that I didn't deserve it.

I imagine that birthdays in the Everdeen house are nothing like that. They're genuinely happy occasions where friends and family share a meal and celebrate the passing of another year. If that's true, Katniss must hate her birthday because it means she has to be center of attention. They may not have much, but what they have is enough. And everything is treasured and appreciated because it's given and shared selflessly.

Then I remember the goat cheese I'm carrying in my bag. A gift. One Prim could have given to her sister or shared with the Hawthornes. They'll have less at their feast because I have it. I know why I felt uneasy. I shouldn't have it. My birthdays weren't perfect and neither was my childhood, but I always was fed. I shouldn't have something like this.

The sky has turned significantly darker when we reach the end of town. It's important we all get home soon before we get soaked in the rain. Prim doesn't need to get sick again. We stall where the sidewalk turns to dirt, where we should be sharing our goodbyes. However, there's this thing in my bag that makes it feel like it weighs a ton, and I can't ignore it.

"Prim? Can I talk to your sister for a minute?"

The corners of Prim's mouth perk up a bit. "Sure. We don't live very far from here. I can make it the rest of the way alone. I'll see you at home, Katniss."

Katniss looks like she's about to protest, but Prim turns on her heels before she can say anything. _Always the excellent yet unintentional wingman._ They must not live much further away like Prim said, because Katniss doesn't chase after her. Although, Katniss looks a little annoyed. I can't tell by her face, she keeps that remarkably stoic, but the way her hands slide over her bag, and the way she moves her weight from one hip to the other, tells me she's uncomfortable. I can save her one worry though. I'm not going to ask if I can come to her party.

Carefully, I take the goat cheese out of a pocket of my bag and hold it out to Katniss. "I don't think I can accept this."

Katniss eyes me, then the cheese, then me again. Her mouth hangs open a little bit. Once again, I manage to surprise the girl, but not in a good way. "What?"

"I think you should keep it."

Katniss takes a step back. She glances over her shoulder, looking for Prim I would guess. She's out of sight. Katniss faces me again and looks like she did last week when she accused me of demanding a favor, except it's worse, because she's more than angry at me this time, she's hurt. "If you didn't want it then you shouldn't have taken it," she says bitingly.

"It's not that I don't want it, I just think—"

"_You_ can tell Prim you're returning her gift."

"You know I don't want to hurt Prim's feelings."

"Then why are you trying to give it back?"

"It's…because…," I struggle. I don't know how to say this and not offend her. But it would seem that it's a bit late for that. And she shouldn't be offended really, because this has nothing to do with Katniss personally. It's the simple reality of our circumstances. "You know why," I conclude.

"You gave her cookies, something of value to you. She's not allowed to do the same?" Katniss asks with raised eyebrows.

"I'm not trying to be a jerk here," I insist. "We have different…resources." We often end up with a batch of stale cookies that don't get sold. It's pretty typical. I wasn't going to wait to give Prim old cookies that we would have otherwise thrown away. That's not a gift. What Prim gave me…it should have been a birthday present. It shouldn't be mine.

Katniss doesn't see it this way. She looks about ready to knock me out. At least I know how to take care of the bump if she does. "Yes. I'm the poor urchin from the Seam and you're the rich merchant from town," she says, her voice a mixture of anger and sarcasm. "My family can't possibly survive without a glob of cheese."

"Why do you have to make everything so difficult?" I raise my voice to her.

And then she says it. The one thing I suspected, but tried my damndest to believe wasn't true. "I didn't ask to be your friend, Peeta." A light rumble of thunder echoes in the distance. Intermittent raindrops begin to fall around us. "And the last thing I'm going to let you do is hurt my sister."

I shake my head at that comment. Even if she doesn't want me to be her friend, even if she doesn't like me, she knows that's my last intention. I'm upset that she would even think it. "I'm not trying to hurt her. I'm trying to do the right thing," I swear. Why can't she just get it? It's not right for me to take this from her. I don't deserve it.

"Then keep it," she says quickly. She starts backing up toward the Seam. More and more raindrops wet the dusty ground. "And keep your cookies and your bread and anything else you feel the need to bestow upon my family. I don't need it."

And she's gone. I try to call out her name, but it's masked behind another rumble of thunder; this one much closer than the last. She doesn't hear me call for her. She doesn't come back.

I'm a mess when I reach my house. My clothes are soaked through. Prim's gift is ruined. I throw it in the trash and rinse off the smudges that melted onto my hand. I take a quick shower, turning up the water as hot as it will go, though even the highest setting isn't all that warm. I want to rinse away this awful day, but it fails to work. I put on some dry clothes and lie on my bed, running the disastrous scene through my head again and again. It started off well enough. Katniss joked with me, at Prim's expense, but it wasn't cruel. We talked about her birthday, and yeah, that wasn't a high point, but it wasn't terrible. But Prim's gift. Why did it have to be food? If it were anything else I could have accepted it gladly, but not _food_.

I've seen Katniss go without. Her arms were so thin I could have wrapped my hand around them. Her eyes were empty and frightened and ready to give up. Slumped up against a tree in the rain, in a storm like today's, about to die.

I rub my hand over my face vigorously, pushing the image from my mind. I should have explained myself better. I should have just confessed how much it scared me to see her that way. How much it scares me that it's still a possibility. Because there are no guarantees. Not for any of us.

I must have been lying here a long time because I hear people come in the house. Mom yells at someone about something. Who knows? As long as it's not me, I don't care. Someone comes up the stairs. There's a knock.

"What?" I shout. The door opens without a response. Rilee comes in, looking a little worse for wear. He got drenched in the storm, too. He's dripping onto my floor. They probably closed the bakery early because people don't like to shop in the heavy rain.

"What the hell did you do to Hawthorne?" Rilee says with disdain in his voice. He avoids yelling so he doesn't alert Mom or Dad, specifically Mom.

I sit up on my elbows, confused, and unwilling to deal with my brother. "What are you talking about?" I gripe.

"Today, after gym class, I made a remark about him missing a goal and he shoved me up against the lockers."

"It sounds like you made fun of him and pissed him off. That's got nothing to do with me," I deflect. And to be honest, it's probably not the first time Rilee's ripped on Hawthorne. He and Rilee are in the same grade, so they have a lot of the same classes. My brother is a jerk most of the time. I'm surprised Rilee doesn't get shoved up against lockers more often.

"_No_, it has nothing to do with a little dark-haired girl you've been walking home from school every week."

I sit up further. I wait for the joke, the bluff. There's nothing. "I don't know what you mean," I lie.

"Oh, please," he says dramatically. "Did you think it was a secret? You know what the gossip is like in town. Everyone sees everything," he scoffs.

So people have noticed. Whatever. It's innocent. "It has nothing to do with Gale Hawthorne."

He starts pacing at the end of my bed, but my room is not very big, and he has to turn around after only a few steps. "Everyone knows Hawthorne and that girl have something going on."

"Katniss," I interrupt.

He stops to look at me. "What?"

"Her name is Katniss," I tell him. He should at least know her name. She deserves better than to be called, _that girl_. _My girl_, but not _that_ girl.

"Whatever," he says with a wave of dismissal. "Just back off."

My fingers are clenching the fabric of my sweatpants. I didn't notice until now. _Something going on with Hawthorne._ If she had a boyfriend she would have told me I couldn't walk her home because it would bother him. Most girls would be proud to say such a thing. Katniss never said anything. She never insinuated she was dating anyone. But the way she reacted when Prim mentioned him. What did it mean? Are they together? Like Rilee said, everyone assumes they're together. Do their parents disapprove of them dating? That doesn't make sense. Their parents are friends. They have parties together. I pinch the bridge of my nose. I'm frustrated. "I'm not doing anything wrong," I tell him, because it's true.

"Then why are you keeping it a secret?"

"It's not a secret. It's private."

"Fine. Just keep in mind that Hawthorne is bigger than you and he knows his way around a knife."

"Stay out of it, Rilee."

"I've got no problem with that. I'm not going to get my ass kicked just so you can slum it with some coal miner's daughter."

I'm off the bed. I'm pressing Rilee against the door by his shoulders and I don't know how I moved so fast. We're about the same size, but he's not expecting it, and it's easy to get the upper hand. I don't think I really hurt him—more like I shoved him hard and didn't stop holding him there. There is a loud crashing sound when his back hits the door. When I see the slight panic in his eyes, I let go.

"What the fuck, Peeta?" he shouts. He rubs the back of his head. Was it his head that made the sound?

I don't respond. I stand there breathing too hard and hearing Rilee's words run through my head again and again.

"Have you lost your goddamn mind?" he shouts again. He's not interested in an answer. He slams the door as he leaves.

My mom is yelling. She probably wants to know what's going on. I don't hear her come up the stairs, so I ignore it.

I fall to the bed. I listen to the sound of the rain hammering against the roof for a while. The thunder crashes and shakes the windows. I remember to push a new empty bucket in this one spot by my bed where the roof always leaks. The bucket that was there is full already. There are loud taps as water falls into the bucket. I hear a few before I fall into a fitful sleep.

Oh no. Angst! Try to stay calm. All storms pass eventually.


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: I said this last time, but wow. My readers are all kinds of amazing. Thank you to everyone who reviewed. And thank you to the people at The Hunger Games Tribute for recommending my story on their site.

Reviews are always appreciated. Enjoy.

**Chapter 5:**

I'm not surprised when I see neither Katniss nor Prim at their normal spot at the end of the school day. It feels like a kick to the chest anyhow. She couldn't send a bigger message if she tried. It's the final nail in the coffin of my attempt at building a friendship with Katniss.

"You want to come to the park today? We're throwing together a soccer match," someone asks me, one of my friends. I don't know which one. I'm vaguely aware of the conversation going on. We're standing in misshapen circle in the hallway, forcing people to duck around us as they make their way toward the exit. A couple of my friends lean against the wall of lockers like I am; they do it because it's the best way to check out the girls as they walk by. I'm looking at that empty spot on the wall near the doors where Katniss usually is.

"You don't have to work today, right?" someone asks. This time I'm nudged in the side.

"Uh, no. I don't have to work," I mumble.

"Then come with us. We could use you," someone encourages.

I shake my head. I feel like I'm in a fish bowl and everyone's voice sounds the same.

"The whole lunch table is going to be there, including Vesta," yet another person says. This person waggles his eyebrows at me. The rest of the group chuckles. I can't take it.

"I'm not interested, okay?" I snap. The laughter abruptly dies. I should apologize or something, but I don't care. The whole soccer game is just a ploy to impress the girls—though none of them would admit it. And the girls use that time to gossip and make eyes at us. I'm not interested in taking part of either or those things. Besides, ploys don't work anyway, not the way you want them to.

I brush past my group of friends and ignore them when they shout at me. I don't know which ones yelled. What kind of friend am I if I can't even differentiate one person from the other? I blame my shitty mood—the same one I've had all week. No one has asked me about it, which pleases me because I don't want to talk about it. At the same time, it worries me because I wonder if they know the reason already. Do they know about Hawthorne's squabble with Rilee last week or how I've been walking Katniss home for the past month? Have they been talking about it behind my back? And most importantly, do they think the way Rilee does? He thinks I'm dating under my class, which I guess I am technically, but he also thinks it's below me. He sees Katniss as trash because she's from the Seam and thinks even less of me for wanting her.

A girl from the Seam can't offer any sort of connection or financial gain. She can't even offer her own good standing in the community. There is only one reason to go out with a girl from the Seam, and it's not to have an enjoyable conversation, if you know what I mean. That's what Rilee thinks. I can hear these words being spoken verbatim by my mother. I've been hearing it for years, and not only from her. There are other adults, other high ranking officials, kids from town. They think the Seam is trash and I'm trash by association.

I don't care. And all of this I could stand because I don't care. I know class doesn't determine if a person is good or not. But there is one person's opinion that makes a difference. Does Katniss think I consider her below me? Does she think I'm trying to take advantage of her? Might explain why she reacted so badly. The thought makes my stomach churn.

Before I know it I'm in the square. I walked in the wrong direction in getting to my house, but I didn't want to go there. It will be empty and the last thing I want is to be left with my alone with my thoughts. However, I'm surrounded by people right now, and I don't want that either. Nor do I want to spend time with my friends. I want…well, it doesn't matter what I want much at this point.

I buy an apple from one of the vendors, hoping it will settle the stomachache I've had for a week. I take a seat on a bench in front of the grocer, nibble on my apple, and settle into my misery once again.

Katniss wasn't there. She didn't wait for me. She didn't even give me a chance to apologize. The last seven days went by in an agonizing blur. I wouldn't see Katniss for most of the day, and even though that was typical of my school days, the absence of her became much more pronounced after the nasty fight we had. History became torture, and not just because of the nature of the lesson. She was stoic, quiet, and kept her attention to the window. She didn't glance in my direction, not even to throw me a dirty look. If she did that, at least I would know what was on her mind. Our argument was on a constant loop in my head during history class. I tried to draw a few times, but the sketches always turned out bad and I'd scribble them out about halfway through. Katniss' continued indifference cemented the last thing she said to me. _I don't need it_. I now had to assume she meant to say, _I don't need you_.

My apple is bitter and bruised, but I finish it down to the core because I used my pitiful allowance to buy it, and I can't waste it. Once again, I'm out of things to do. I need something that doesn't involve interacting with people. I scan across the square and my eyes land on the bakery. Of course. The answer couldn't be more obvious.

The bell rings as I walk through the front door of the bakery. Rilee's sitting on a stool we usually hide in the broom closet. He's got his feet perched up on the counter. He tenses up when the door opens, but relaxes when he sees it's me. We hide the stool because we're not allowed to sit when we're running the front, but when it's slow and Mom isn't around, the stool makes an appearance.

"Hey, man. What are you doing here? It's your day off," Rilee asks while arranging his feet on the counter again. He's thinking the same thing I am. We don't set foot near the bakery when it's our designated day off. If you do, you'll be put to work. No question. So it's best to steer clear of the place. However, work has been good for me the past few days. The tiring repetitive action of rolling dough does wonders for a restless mind.

"I know," I reply. "Are Mom and Dad here?"

"No. They went shopping."

Ah, hence the stool.

Rilee throws his arms behind his head and leans back. If he leans a little further, his head is going to end up knocking into the floor. "Miche is finishing up the dough for tomorrow morning."

_Perfect._ I can work and Mom and Dad are gone. "You want to take off early?" I suggest. Might as well get rid of Rilee, too. I'll get more work done that way.

"No shit?" Rilee drops his feet to the floor in shock, but he doesn't talk me out of it. He's already off the stool and removing his apron. "Great. Make sure you sweep!" he yells as he walks out the door. He should have swept already. I guess it's pretty typical to do a half-assed job when the boss isn't around. It's typical of Rilee anyway.

I put on the blue _Mellark's_ apron. This one isn't covered with flour and burn marks like the ones we use in the back. I stow the stool in the back of the closet hidden behind a stack of miscellaneous boxes and grab the broom. I suppose I owe this to Rilee. We haven't talked about what happened last week and I don't see that happening. I'm fine with it. I feel bad about shoving him. I've never done anything like that, not since I was six years old and Rilee and I would fight over stupid stuff, like when he would cheat at Capture the Flag. He always cheated. He called it strategy. Rilee wouldn't understand my situation with Katniss anyway. He takes after Mom too much.

I'm sweeping debris into the dustpan when the bells on the door jingle. I try to put my bad mood aside and find my smile, but when I look up I'm too stunned to move. Katniss stands in the middle of room, staring back at me, looking equally startled. Somehow, she finds the wherewithal to speak.

"I didn't think you'd be here," she says breathlessly. She looks to the floor.

_Oh,_ _well, sure. I'm not supposed be here. _I finish up with the dustpan and put the broom aside. "I didn't have anything better to do," I mutter, finding no smile whatsoever. She doesn't react, so I try to do the same. I take my place behind the counter and attempt to make something normal out of this mess. "So, what do you need?"

Katniss blinks a few times and her forehead wrinkles like she doesn't understand the question. Finally, she seems to remember where she is and answers, "Um, I have enough for one."

I'm on autopilot as I shake open the paper bag, grab a loaf from the rows of bread behind me, shove it in the bag, and fold over the edges. I write down the purchase in a ledger. When I look up Katniss remains in the same place she was when I first saw her. She's twisting the strap of her bag and keeping her eyes on the floor. The crinkling sound the paper makes as I push the bag towards her gets her attention. She quickly takes a smaller pouch from her bag and removes a single coin. She sets it beside the bread and goes to take the bag, but I'm still holding onto it and I don't let go. She tugs it once and I still don't let go. Finally, she glances up at me.

"We need to talk," I state boldly. I'm not sure I'll know what to say, but given how the last week has gone, if I have a chance I have to take it.

"No. We don't," Katniss says. Her fingers pull on the bag yet again.

"At least let me explain."

"Peeta, there's really nothing—"

"Would you listen?" I cut in sharply. Her mind battles in a debate over the best course of action. I know only because she hasn't ripped the bag from my hand and made a run for it. "Please?" I add, because despite how pissed off Katniss probably is, "please" has worked for me every time I've used it thus far.

Luckily for me, the plea works its magic once again, and Katniss releases her hold on the bag and tucks her arms against her chest. I need a few seconds to get my speech together. I've thought about this a lot; however, all my speeches are getting mixed up in my head. I move around the counter and sit down on a small bench in front of the window. Kids use this bench while their mothers are placing orders or chatting with my parents. I pat the spot next to me on the bench, but the gesture doesn't work. Katniss simply shifts her weight to the opposite hip. I lean my elbows onto my knees and heave a heavy sigh.

"You were upset that I gave back Prim's gift," I say. I'm pleased with how calm I sound considering I've been a complete wreck for a week. "Why were you upset?"

"I thought _you_ were going to explain things to _me_," Katniss gripes.

"Please?" I beg, yet again.

She's the one to sigh heavily this time. "It was rude for one thing. You would have hurt Prim's feelings."

"I wasn't trying to do that. That's why I talked to you about it alone," I remind her. I like Prim. Everyone likes Prim. Just by looking at the girl you can tell she's as sweet as the flower she was named for. No one would hurt her on purpose. "What else?"

Katniss purses her lips as we enter some uncomfortable territory. I wish she would sit down. The way she shifts her hips from side to side makes me think she's about to take off through the door. "You assumed we were too poor to give up a piece of cheese. You felt sorry for us."

Once again, she's wrong. She could assume that of anyone else, but not me. "No. That's not what I meant. I know you're capable." She's the one who traipses around the forest. If not for the butcher and Katniss' efforts, I'd never see meat on our dinner table. "I told you that once before, remember? You can provide for your family in ways that I can't."

"I remember," she says reluctantly. She stares at her shoes.

I tempt fate and pat the spot next to me a second time. "Sit down, please," I ask gently this time in case she doesn't understand the gesture. Katniss rolls her eyes before she saunters next to the bench, making it creak when she sits down. She's sitting on the end, but the bench isn't very big and we're only separated by a few inches. Since she can't sway from side to side anymore, she starts to bounce her leg rapidly. For a hunter, this girl is awful fidgety.

I can't put this off any longer, because even though the afternoon rush is gone, every second I spend thinking about this I risk a customer coming in, giving Katniss an all too easy chance to make a getaway. I clear my throat. "When we were kids and I gave you the bread, I didn't give it to you because I felt bad for you." I could tell her it was because I'm in love with her. I toy with the bottom edge of my apron as I consider it. No, it's not the right time. That's part of it of course but I can't just say it like that. It will sound like it came out of nowhere and she won't believe me. I have to clear my throat a second time. "It scared me," I confess.

"You were scared of a starving girl?" she says, disbelieving. Her sense of humor is astoundingly dark.

"I was scared of what was happening to you," I say. My voice is serious. She looks down at her lap and stops shaking her leg. Katniss is finally listening. "You were so thin and so…I thought you might die," I struggle to say. I shift my eyes so I can see her reaction. Katniss doesn't fidget or shift in her seat, but her eyes darken and glaze over. I hate to bring her back to that place of suffering, but it's necessary. It's where our story began.

"I would have," Katniss murmurs in the smallest of voices.

"I didn't want you to die." And then I laugh nervously at my own dark humor. What kind of world do with live in where we actually find ourselves saying something like that to one another? "That should go without saying, right?"

"Most people wouldn't care."

"I care," I say confidently. Katniss looks me over skeptically at first. When she finds nothing but honest conviction in my face she looks back at her lap. "I care about what happens to you and to Prim." I add Prim this time so it sounds less specific, just barely. "And the fact is, you have less than I do, and for me to take something away from you is wrong."

"It was a gift," she says with aggravation.

"I know it was, but try to see this from my point of view." I turn in my seat and prop my leg up on the bench. "The last time we interacted in any way was when you were starving to death, an experience that scared the hell out of me, and then, practically the next time we speak I'm taking food away from you." I look to her eyes to see if Katniss understands. She's got the crease in between her eyes, but she looks more frustrated than she does confused.

"All that over a cheese?" she questions.

"I never said it was a rational excuse," I shrug.

Katniss folds her lips in as she mulls it over. I consider that a victory. I scratch the side of my arm and wait out her response. I don't expect a thank you or an apology. I remember my low expectations even in this situation. I'm hoping for acceptance. However, even that is too much to hope for apparently.

"Why do you care?" Katniss says, in a nearly accusing manner.

I freeze. My hand is stuck on the side of my arm. "What?" I croak.

"Why do you care what happens to me?" she clarifies, not that I needed clarification.

I chose the word "care" so I could avoid the word "love." Although both are true, one has much further reaching implications than the other. I find another route, one that is equally true. Partially true. It's not a lie. "We're friends," I choke out. I can't help reliving what Katniss said last week about not asking for my friendship. I might as well set her straight on that point while I'm at it. "It doesn't matter if you didn't ask for it either. That's not how friendships work. You don't ask for them. They just happen." Or they're meticulously planned using umbrella ploys, a little sister who acts as a wingman, and cookies as bribes. Whatever. It's not like those things got me what I wanted at any point. That doesn't work with us. Honesty seems to be the only thing that gets us anywhere. Huh. I think I just realized something important.

"And you say we're friends?" Katniss asks derisively, but her voice isn't harsh. Is the shell gone? Really? I didn't even see it crack.

"Yes. I do," I reaffirm.

Katniss shakes her head a little. She rubs the back of her neck like it's sore, or has been sore. I have to wonder if this has been on her mind. Maybe Prim brought it up. I'm too scared to ask because I'm too afraid the answer will be no.

"Did you like it?" she asks suddenly.

I can never follow the path her mind takes. "Did I like what?"

"The cheese?"

"Oh," I reply. And then I feel terrible. I could lie. I know better. "I don't know. It got ruined in the rain."

"Well, tell Prim you loved it. That's what I told her."

Katniss doesn't need to tell me that. I'm not that much of an idiot. "No problem."

Katniss sighs again and unfolds her arms from her chest. Her shoulders sag down and I'm reminded of the way she let her guard down when she was at my house. I really like seeing Katniss relaxed in my presence because she is so rarely relaxed in anyone's presence. A piece of hair falls into her face, blocking my view of her eyes. Why is this girl's hair always doing that? I desperately fight an urge to push it back behind her ear. I briefly wonder what would happen if I did it. No other girl ever made me question my every move this much. I guess that's the point. It has nothing to do with Katniss being difficult. I've only ever felt _this_ way about _this_ girl and it makes me question everything I do down the smallest gesture. But those gestures are important. They help to gauge where you're at with a person, in terms of friendships and relationships. It's just hair anyway.

My fingers twitch. I'm going to do it. I have to do it before I lose my nerve. If I've learned anything from my wingman, it's to take advantage of every opportunity. I swallow once. Then I lift my fingers the short but necessary few inches to the side of her face and tuck the soft strands behind her ear. The effort takes all of four seconds, and no more than half a second later, the hair falls out of place again. Good grief.

I'm prepared for her to run out the door, but instead she looks up at me quizzically. The crease is back and one side of her mouth perks up. I try to remember a time I've seen that look on her face. I can't come up with one. "What are you thinking?" I ask.

Katniss tucks the disobedient hair behind her ear and it stays in place. What did I do wrong?

"I'm trying to figure out why you want to be friends. I'm not nice to you."

Well, at least she's honest. "No kidding." I roll my eyes.

"You just…," she fumbles. The fingers on one hand tap her knee repeatedly. "You confuse me."

The world has just shifted on its axis. "I confuse _you_?" I automatically reply. Katniss is possibly the most baffling person I've ever known, and she calls me confusing? If anything I'm wildly transparent, but whatever. I suppose the failed attempt at pushing her hair behind her ear is as close as we've come to physical contact, which is a normal indication that you want something more than friendship, but she doesn't pick up on normal cues so she probably thought it was strange. And I rejected a gift from her sister after I gave her a present. And I randomly drew a sketch of her in my kitchen. And I started talking to her a month ago with zero provocation other than I've been psyching myself up for it for years. _Geez_. Suddenly, her confusion isn't so unfounded.

"I never know what you're thinking. And when I think I know, I'm wrong. I'm not even close," she complains.

_Join the club. _

I really want to tease her. _Yes, I'm the enigma. You're not mysterious in the least bit. _But I can't. That's too cruel. And she's too damn adorable. I rub my hand against my jaw and fight the smile on my face before I look stupid happy and she doesn't take me seriously. "It's called trust, Katniss," I say plainly. Her mouth shifts to the side and her shoulders hunch forward. I could tell this was going to be an issue from the start. Has she ever trusted anyone outside her own family? "You don't trust me at all, do you?"

Katniss doesn't respond, but her leg starts bouncing again. Her hand still rests on her knee, so I sum up some courage, and put my hand over hers to still her leg. Confused eyes jump up to mine and it makes me smile. Confused is better than angry.

"Do you trust that I'll be there every week to walk you home?"

She forgets the unbidden hand on hers and laughs. "Yeah."

"Well, that's a start," I half-grumble. I take my hand away because leaving it there for much longer would be suggestive of something more than friendship. I think even Katniss would make that impression, even if she's oblivious to everything else.

The pause in the conversation forces me to ask myself the same question I asked of her. Do I trust Katniss will wait for me? The answer is no, unfortunately. I'd be setting myself up for more heartache if I made that assumption. There are plenty of reasons why she wouldn't wait around for me to walk her home. Most of them are detrimental to my ego, but one stands out, and it's one that needs to be put to rest. It's not a good idea to give much credibility to gossip, but like Rilee says, everyone sees everything in town.

I put both my feet on the floor and stand up again. I take the broom and start sweeping at nothing. I need my hands to keep busy when I ask this. It has to be casual. It can't be accusing. It has to be friendly. "Speaking of trust, I have to ask you something."

Now that Katniss has more room on the bench, she puts her hands on the back edge and leans onto her palms. She wouldn't do that if she knew what was coming. "What?"

"Um…," I very cleverly hedge. I stare at the handle of the broom where my hands are gripping it tightly. "AreyoudatingGaleHawthorne?" It comes out in a rushed spurt. I can only see out of the corner of my eye, because I'm too scared to look up, but Katniss sits so still it's a little unnerving.

"I…what?" she croaks.

"It's a simple question." _If you understood the question._

"No."

I sweep at imaginary stuff on the floor because my insides are jumping around and it's all I can do to keep from doing a dance in the middle of the bakery. "Okay," I indifferently shrug. There's another pause and I can feel her eyes on me. I know it's coming. I know she's going to ask why I needed to know.

"I don't date," she states instead.

_Huh?_ I stop sweeping for a second, but then I take it up again. I don't want Katniss to see how much that affected me. That wouldn't be a friendly response. She doesn't date? Everybody dates. It's the only thing worth doing in this place. "Ever?" She doesn't answer right away so I'm forced to look up. She shakes her head. Well that's…great. Apparently, my biggest competition is actually Mrs. Everdeen's rules on dating.

"Why would you ask something like that?" Katniss inquires.

_Because everyone thinks you're dating Hawthorne. Because you flipped out on Prim for talking about Gale in front of me. Because I have less competition with him out of the picture. _

I feel safe mentioning only one of those reasons. "Well, I kind of had to assume something was going on considering how angry you were at Prim last week for bringing him up."

Katniss sighs. I can tell I hit a nerve. Snapping at Prim is something she wasn't happy about. "I was angry at Prim because she knows I don't like to talk about my birthday. And because she was…," Katniss hesitates. Upon observing that it's still only she and I in the room, she continues. "She was talking about Gale and his poaching." Even though we're the only ones here, she still lowers her voice.

I cup my hands over the top of the handle and lean my chin over it. "Well, I know that he hunts. Most people do."

"I know that, but Gale and I have a responsibility to one another. I can't let Prim tell just anyone about the turkey that he shot for her birthday. It is illegal," she reminds me.

We're down to trust once again, but it's a different situation, and I can't be offended. It's not just for her sake, she's thinking of Hawthorne. Someone who is undoubtedly her friend. "You were protecting him."

Katniss nods and looks down at her lap again.

And I have to change the subject. We've made up, so to speak. Hopefully, we can talk about something more pleasant. Ideally, something that has nothing to do with Hawthorne. I set the broom aside once again because I don't need it to keep me busy. I lean up against the front side of the counter. "How was your birthday?" I say cheerfully.

She grimaces at first, but it falters. "It was very nice," she replies politely.

I guess small talk is all I'm going to get on this topic. "Good," I reply.

The grimace makes a reappearance. "You're not going to give me a present, are you?"

I laugh, both at the question and the face she makes when she asks it. I hold up my hands in defense. "No. I wouldn't dare. I think we should enact a 'no more presents' rule."

"That's not a bad idea." She stands up and walks in front of me. She's a very different person from the one she was when she walked in here. There's a smile there. It's small, but it's there.

"What was for dinner?"

"Venison, actually. We sold a lot of it at the Hob. That's why I had money for bread."

I glance behind over my shoulder and take note of the coin. It's too bad she didn't trade venison for bread. I would have enjoyed some fresh game, but then she would have risked seeing me by coming into the bakery over the weekend. Fate is good to me. "I see. What's the Hob?"

"It's a market in the Seam."

"Is that the black market place?"

"Yes."

Katniss goes to the black market? Yeah, she's got a good scowl on her, but she's so small and that place is swarming with criminals. How does she defend herself? Half the guys I know are too scared to go there. "Wow. I can't picture you there with all those criminals."

Katniss rolls her eyes and shifts on her hips. It's not from nerves this time though. She's taking pleasure in my comment. "Peeta, don't make me point out the obvious."

"Would you bring me there?" Somehow, I think I'd be less nervous about going there if I was with Katniss. She _is_ the criminal after all. I want to see it, not because I want to buy liquor or anything. I've only seen her in school or town. That's my world. I want to see her world. I want to see what she's like in it.

Katniss smirks and cover her mouth when a laugh escapes. I'm so glad the notion of my going to the Hob is so entertaining to her. "I'll tell you what, I'll bring you to the Hob the day you have something to trade, and they don't want cookies."

I push off the counter and lean in closer. She steps back a little, but nothing major. I like her this way. I like _us_ this way. Not fighting or struggling to figure each other out. The moments when we ignore all the messed up stuff that says we shouldn't be together or that we shouldn't even be friends. When we're left alone to just…be. I'd suffer another seven days for those moments. "That's not a 'no,' " I murmur. She smiles again and my heart squeezes in my chest. I couldn't possibly be more far gone.

A door pounds open suddenly, but it's not the front door. The door to the kitchen swings open and my oldest brother walks out. "Rilee! Did you get…?" He stops when he sees Katniss and me standing in the middle of the room. I realize I'm standing too close and take a conspicuous step backward. There's a first. "Oh. Hey, Peeta," Miche says with a knowing smirk growing on his face.

"I took over for Rilee for the rest of the afternoon," I explain.

Miche shoves his hands in his pockets and casually walks toward us. "How did he talk you into that?" He stands next to us and rolls back and forth on his heels. His eyebrows rise expectantly at me. Oh, yeah.

"Uh, Miche. This is Katniss. Katniss, this is my brother, Miche." I do with whole introduction dance with stiff gestures and everything.

Miche holds out his hand to her, and unlike the time I tried to shake Katniss' hand, she actually takes his. "I know this little girl. She's been selling me squirrels for years. But it's nice to be formally introduced." He smiles genuinely at her. I'm pleased to see Katniss return the gesture.

"I don't have a squirrel for you today."

Miche snaps his fingers and makes a big display of mock disappointment. "That's too bad. I guess it's frosting and cupcakes for us tonight, huh Peeta?"

I rub the spot between my eyebrows. That joke would have been better reserved for Prim.

"I should get home," Katniss cuts in.

I don't disagree because Miche will probably embarrass me more. I grab her bread from the counter where it was left and hand it off to her. She tries to take it but I don't let go right away. "I'll see you next week, right?" There's too much hope in my voice. Low expectations. _Low._

"Sure," she answers, but it may have been so she could get her bread. I'll have to wait till next week to find out. "Bye, Peeta."

"Bye." I do a little wave that she doesn't see. She's out the door and out of sight too fast. Miche catches me staring.

"So, the Everdeen girl?" he muses. He looks out the window like I am, even though there isn't anything to see.

"What?" I say distractedly.

"She's a good girl, a little abrupt at times, but good."

Uh…okay? Miche and Rilee couldn't possibly differ more on their opinion of Katniss. And frankly, I don't want to hear about either one. Blame some weird sibling reaction. "Don't you have work to do?"

"Nah. I'm done for the day." He shrugs. I notice he's not wearing his apron and he's already cleaned up. "Hey, why don't we close a little early? Square is empty anyway."

"Mom will be pissed."

"Well, I'm going out with Grace so you can just tell Mom I stayed until close. She'll never know the difference."

I'm floored. I'd say he's being nice, but actually, he must want to see Grace badly. Either way, it works out great for me. "Do you ever do this with Rilee?"

"Pfft! No," he scoffs. "Rilee can't keep his mouth shut about anything."

No, he really can't. Rilee should learn. He'd get shoved a lot less.


	6. Chapter 6

A/N: Sorry for the long wait. I've been trying to get through _Scars_, which still isn't finished. So, fail on my part. Hopefully you will find this to be a welcome break. Let me say thank you to everyone who wrote a review or added this story to their alerts or favorites. My readers are nothing short of amazing. Unnecessary umbrellas for everyone!

In case you haven't heard, I joined the staff of Muttations Podcast. You can read my HG fic recommendations on their blog. Check out my profile for linkage.

Reviews are always appreciated. Enjoy.

**Chapter 6: **

The latest cold front passed through and finally it's warm enough to go outside without a jacket. I'm hoping the air won't be the only thing that's warmed up. It's a nice change from the rain we've had several days in a row. Rilee swiped my umbrella. One guess as to what he's using it for.

I try to keep myself at a steady pace as I migrate from the gymnasium to the academic building, but I feel my speed increasing the nearer I get. I'm not late or anything, I just want to be on time, maybe even a little early. I want to be able to catch Katniss before she leaves if she decides not to show like she did last week. Luckily for me, I decided to work on a day I wasn't supposed to, and we had a chance to talk. We left things off rather amicably last week. I'd say better than amicably, but my low expectations give me perspective. It's something I am forced to keep in mind because while I have had feelings for Katniss for many years, in actuality, our relationship has barely reached the plateau of friendship. Therefore, amicable is not a bad place to be.

Still, part of me wonders what would have happened in the bakery if Miche hadn't walked in.

Students continue rushing out into the sunshine as I make my way to the hallway where Katniss and Prim meet every day. They're both leaning against the wall today. Katniss has a content smile on her face as Prim chats with her. Katniss' eyes flicker away from her sister when she sees me walking up. I feel a twinge of hope that not only is Katniss waiting for me; she's looking forward to seeing me. Somewhere in the back of my mind my mantra for low expectations repeats itself, but it's overwhelmed by the twinge in my gut.

"Hey Prim. Katniss," I say in greeting, my voice steady. Look how far I've come since embarrassingly shouting Katniss' name to get her attention.

Prim practically bounces off the wall. "Hi Peeta!" she beams.

Katniss stands up casually, carefully—like she's stalking prey in the woods. From my years of observation, I know this is how she naturally moves. All the fidgeting with her bag and such, that's not her. That's how she acts when she's out of her comfort zone. And if she's more like herself now, even with me here…goddamn twinges.

"Hello," Katniss says with her lips in a straight line; however, her voice seems to have thawed out somewhat.

"Peeta, I have so much to tell you!" Prim says excitedly. She surprises me when she hooks her skinny arm around mine and pulls me toward the exit. While this isn't what I usually have in mind when I think about taking the arm of an Everdeen, it's almost as good. Especially if it means getting to the walking part of our outing will be painless for once. I check to see if Katniss is bothered by me taking her sister by the arm. I don't want to overstep any boundaries, even if it was Prim who initiated it. I catch Katniss rolling her eyes, which means she's somewhere between amused and annoyed, neither of which indicates I should let go.

It's brilliantly sunny and only a little humid. A perfect day for being outside. Prim chatters away like mad. Since we haven't talked in two weeks she's catching me up on all the sixth grade news. Neither Katniss nor I get much chance to say anything, but I don't mind. This gives me better opportunity to observe Katniss. That never gets old. And I have to say, my drawings do not do her justice. Her features are plain by some standards, I guess. She doesn't draw artificial lines around her eyes or color her lips, yet everything about her interests me. Today, I notice the scratch near her ear has faded away for the most part. Only a light white line remains. It contrasts with the olive tone of her skin. When a breeze hits us, the wispy hairs along her hairline flutters against her forehead. At the same time, her tongue skims over her subtly pink lips to wet them and prevent them from getting chapped by the wind. My tongue unconsciously darts out and does the same thing. I'm struck with this unrelenting urge to just—

Something tugs on my arm. "Peeta? Did you hear what I said?"

"Huh?" I grunt as I glance down at Prim. She gives me an odd look. Probably noticed I was zoning out. I look over at Katniss, who gives me the exact same look. _Sisters_. Unfortunately, I have no idea what Prim just said. "Sorry, I missed it," I quickly apologize.

"I said," Prim whines in true pre-teen fashion, "Jovie and Nathan broke up."

I don't know who Jovie or Nathan is. Apparently their break up was quite the scandal amongst the lower school set last week. I like Prim, but could care less about who's dating who this week as opposed to last. They're _sixth_ graders. The average length of a relationship is three and half hours, and they shouldn't be dating yet anyway. I can't stand to disappoint Prim though, so I suck it up and fake some enthusiasm. "You don't say?"

"Marilyn told everyone that Trista kissed Nathan in the science lab right next to the coal and earth samples. Trista's not as nice as Jovie, but she does have very pretty hair," Prim explains.

I glance over at Katniss just to see if she's paying attention to this drivel. She's rubbing at her temple like she has a headache coming on. I can't blame her.

Prim prattles on. "Anyway, Jovie found out and she broke things off with Nathan, even though he swears it's all made up. Everyone thinks they'll be back together by the end of the week."

Without even knowing the kids she's talking about personally, I wouldn't be surprised if they did get back together by the end of the week. When I was Prim's age, I heard stories exactly like the one she's telling me now. The names change but the gossip stays the same. "What do you think will happen?" I ask with limited curiosity.

Prim purses her lips and lifts up her little chin. "I don't care to be a part of all the gossip," she says haughtily.

I struggle not to laugh. Prim's already taken a role in the gossip chain by telling me the whole tale. Fortunately for her, it hardly matters because I'm not going to tell anyone. I don't even remember most of what she said. "I agree," I say with a nod. "Gossip can be a very dangerous thing to get caught up in." I say this from recent experience.

I still don't know if Katniss knows about the small altercation between Gale Hawthorne and my brother. I figure the only way she could know is if Gale told her, considering Katniss doesn't talk to anyone in school. She sits with Madge Undersee at lunch, the daughter of the Mayor, someone who is likely to hear the town gossip. But Madge is so quiet and nearly as reserved as Katniss. I don't see her bringing it up over bruised apples and old milk. Anyway, it wasn't that big of a deal and I didn't have anything to do with it really. Plus, it's been a couple weeks since it happened and Katniss hasn't mentioned anything, so maybe I'm in the clear? All the conjectures are as annoying as the nonsense between Jovie, Nathan and Trista, but I think it's best to just leave it to Hawthorne and Rilee.

"I do feel bad for Jovie," Prim laments just as we step into the square. I'm reminded of the reasons I like Prim so much. All this drama comes out amongst her school friends and how does she react? She actually cares about their feelings.

"Sometimes guys are jerks, especially in the sixth grade," I shrug. I'm not proud of it, but the sooner Prim learns this, the better.

The square is bustling with parents and their little ones in tow. The younger ones are filled with energy, having just busted free from school. The fresh air and sunshine stuffs them full of spirit as well. Meanwhile the adults just want the kids to stand still until they get home. There's a lot of scolding going on. I've seen it so many times in the bakery. Don't adults remember what it's like to be a kid when the sun finally comes out in the springtime?

Prim unlocks her arm from mine, letting her hands fall to her sides. Her forehead crinkles up like she trying to figure out a difficult puzzle. "Do boys get smarter when they get older?" she asks.

Katniss' laughter breaks into the conversation. Light and refreshing. Hearing her laugh is so much nicer than having her yell at me. She answers Prim's question with confidence. "Not really."

"Hey!" I respond in defense of my gender. A weak argument, I must confess. Katniss smirks over her shoulder. Okay, so having Katniss smirk at me is, once again, so much nicer than having her scowl at me. "Some get smarter," I add. The fact that I'm standing here having a conversation with these two after five weeks is proof of that. I pay attention. Katniss stares ahead and says nothing. At least she doesn't disagree.

"_You're_ not a jerk," Prim says.

"Thank you, Prim. Though I will admit even I have my moments," I say with a nudge to Prim's side. I don't want either of them to think I have a monstrous ego or anything. Besides, I think _I_ realize when I'm being an idiot more than anyone else. I'm fairly certain that's happened at least once during each of my interactions with Katniss.

"You're always nice to me," Prim says sweetly. She bats her big blue eyes up at me and it's hard to believe she doesn't do these things on purpose. With doe eyes like that the boys are going to be lining up.

"That's because _you're_ always nice to _me_. And don't ever let anyone treat you any different," I instruct with slight seriousness. Prim deserves some kind of fairytale prince, and I genuinely hope she finds one. However, it's inevitable to encounter some sort of heartbreak during one's lifetime. There are so many forms it can take, too. From the typical, like dating someone who turns out to be a loser; to the unusual, like seeing the girl you're in love with starving to death outside your parent's bakery. Being ignored or even yelled at by Katniss hurt, but that night outside the bakery was my first experience with real heartbreak. That was the first time I was threatened with a loss I wouldn't have known how to handle.

I wish I could express this to Katniss because it might make things so much easier between us. I mean, if she knew how much I care about her, she wouldn't constantly be suspicious of my actions. However, it could also backfire completely, and I'll be left feeling the worst of all heartbreak, unrequited love. It's been several weeks since we started whatever it is we have going, but it still feels like a risky move. I need to hedge my bets a little more before I take that chance.

We're walking by the flower shop when Prim's face crinkles up again like before. She bites at her lower lip before she talks. "Is there anyone that you are…you know…," she mumbles with her eyes toward the ground. "_Nice_ to in particular?"

When her big, blue, and hopeful eyes peer up at me, I realize I may have made a critical error. I'm nice to Prim because, like I said before, she's a nice girl, but I'm also nice to Prim because I'm trying to impress her sister. Having only ever had brothers and no cousins or anything, I didn't anticipate that she might…um…develop a crush on me? _Dammit._ I am not going to be the one to introduce Prim to heartbreak. I look over at Katniss in the hopes of getting some kind of support or guidance in how to answer this question; however, she's got her hand over her mouth, holding in her laughter. _Thanks for all the help, Everdeen. _

"Are you asking if I have a girlfriend?" I finally say in response to Prim's question. I try to play it off light and teasing, but my voice kind of squeaks on the word _girlfriend_.

Prim's right shoulder bobs.

"No, I don't," I answer honestly. I need a way to deflect and not hurt Prim's feelings in the process. How do you do that with women? Oh right. Compliments. Compliments. Compliments. "But I'd wager that you have had a dozen boyfriends already."

"Me? I don't think so," Prim laughs.

"Trust me. The line to your heart is going to be a mile long. Just make sure they're of a better breed than Nathan," I remind her.

Prim smiles at me and takes my arm again. I'm at such a loss over what to do right now. I don't want Prim to have a crush on me if I'm trying to date her sister. But I don't want to hurt her feelings. Maybe I'm overthinking this. Maybe Prim was just curious. I sincerely hope so, because when I'm alone with Katniss things don't always go so well. I cannot afford to lose my wingman. She's too good at it. Wait a second…

"Did you like the cheese?" Prim cuts into my internal dialogue.

It's been so long since I talked to Prim she hasn't had a chance to ask me about the cheese she gave me as a gift. It feels like that happened ages ago. That poor unfortunate cheese. "Uh…yeah," I stutter.

Katniss exhales noticeably. I hope she didn't have to lie to Prim about the goat cheese too much. She probably doesn't enjoy lying to her sister.

"Good!" Prim cheers. "It's all thanks to Lady. Did you know Katniss gave me Lady for a birthday present?"

The question confuses me for a second, until I remember that Lady is the name of Prim's goat. "Your goat? No, I didn't know that."

"She was the best present I've ever gotten. She was badly injured when we got her, but our mother was able to make her better."

"Prim had a hand in getting her well, too," Katniss adds with pride.

"Really?" I question. It occurs to me that Katniss hasn't said much throughout this entire conversation, which disappoints me because I can see the place where we usually separate about a block away. I can't go two weeks without talking to Prim again. That's my lesson for the day.

"I helped," Prim says modestly. The apples of Prim's cheeks flush with pink. She didn't blush when she asked me about having a girlfriend. I've seen girls my age blush when asking the same question. Hm.

"I just did the things my mother told me to do. Would you like to meet her?"

"Your mother?" I croak involuntarily.

_Uh…._

"No," Prim giggles. "Would you like to meet _Lady_?"

"Oh. Sure," I stammer. _I don't think I can screw up meeting a goat_, I decide. Then my slow brain makes an enormously obvious connection. "Wait, at your house?"

"That is where Lady lives," Prim says like she's talking to a small child. She releases my arm and starts walking backwards so she can see both Katniss and me at the same time. She's all lit up and excited like she was before she gave me the present. And that ended so well.

Both Katniss and I take pause when we reach that familiar spot where the sidewalk turns to dirt, but Prim keeps on walking backwards like she expects us to follow. I won't lie. My curiosity to see Katniss' house, see her in her world, is beyond piqued. However, Katniss has never been very willing to let me into her world. "Well…uh…," I stumble, rubbing the back of my neck nervously. A quick glance at Katniss tells me she's now leaning much further toward annoyed rather than amused.

"Prim, perhaps Peeta has something more important to do," Katniss interrupts. Her hands choke the life out of the strap of her bag.

"Do you have something important to do, Peeta?" Prim asks softly. Her lips form a pout.

My mouth hangs open as I glance back and forth between the Everdeens. Let's not kid around here. Katniss does not want me to go to her house, but she never wants me to do anything. So far, I've been forced to find ways to wheedle myself into her life, sometimes with positive outcomes, sometimes not. My track record with Prim is the opposite. When it comes to Prim and opportunities, I've learned I should always go with my wingman. I straighten up, so I actually appear to have some confidence about this decision. "Yes, I have something very important to do. I have to thank Lady for the cheese."

Prim is delighted. I don't dare look at Katniss. I can feel the anxiety and exasperation rolling off of her shoulders. I concentrate on Prim, who has a pronounced skip in her step as she leads us down the coal dust laden street.

The houses in the Seam are varying levels of gray and in slightly different states of disrepair. Some homes are kept up better than the others, but generally, it's pretty grim. The sun shines brightly, but nothing here shines or sparkles. There's a fence around every yard, but every yard is dirt and rocks, and those fences aren't protecting much of anything.

This place used to make me nervous when I was a kid, but now I understand it better. The state of the community isn't a reflection of the quality of the people. The Seam has more good than bad people in it. That's a better percentage than the townies have going for them sometimes. No person who lives in the Seam is responsible for their circumstances. It's no one's fault but the Capitol's.

I underestimated how close Katniss and Prim's house is to the edge of the Seam. We only pass a few gates when Prim stops in front of a typically shabby house with one open window. The shutters flanking the window were green at some point. I can tell from the flaking paint. Prim swings open the gate of the chain-linked fence and bounces to the side of a white goat with black patches tied to a fencepost. The goat nibbles at grass that isn't there.

I wait for Katniss to go through the gate first. But she doesn't. Her fists clench tightly around the strap of her bag and I don't have to wonder if she wants to send me away. She doesn't want me here. This is too much. Our friendship isn't there yet. It would be foolish of me to push it. I'm just about to give Katniss a break and say my goodbyes, when she quickly brushes past me, past Prim, and rushes into the house. Prim casts a worried glance toward the now closed front door. Instead of going after her distressed older sister, she sighs as she carefully unties the rope from the post and yanks the stubborn animal in my direction.

"This is Lady," she says like a proper hostess. She stops a foot or so off, so I'm forced to step through the open gate. Prim scratches Lady behind the ear. "Lady, meet Peeta."

"Hi Lady," I say politely, even though I'm talking to a goat. I try to scratch her like Prim did, but she ducks her head to sniff at the dirt some more. These Everdeen females stick together. "Thanks so much for the cheese," I offer.

Prim pats the back end of the goat while shaking her head. "You know, Lady doesn't make the cheese. She makes the milk."

"Excuse me, thank you for the milk that became the cheese," I amend with a nod of my head.

Prim smiles. It relieves the guilty ache in my stomach somewhat. I don't like seeing Katniss so troubled. Prim makes it easy to like her, to spend time with her. I know her sister can be the same way. I've seen it. I've experienced it. But none of that matters if Katniss doesn't want it.

"This is where she was bitten." Prim pets a spot on the shoulder blade of the goat where the hair thins out and will probably never grow back. "It was infected and we weren't sure if she would make it, but we saved her," she says proudly. She digs into the pocket of her school bag, retrieves a stubby end of a carrot, and offers it to the animal. Lady gladly gobbles it up. "Do you have pets?"

"Nah. Just the pigs we keep behind the bakery. And we eventually eat them so it's better not to get attached." I named one Homer once. I don't know why. He wasn't anything special. In fact, he was the runt of the group of pigs we had then. Anyway, one evening when we sat down to a roast pork dinner my mother made a joke about how we were eating Homer. That was the end of naming the pigs.

"That's too bad. Maybe Katniss can catch a couple frogs for you," Prim proposes optimistically.

I rub the back of my neck again. And to think this day started out with such promise. "Maybe," I reply with little enthusiasm.

Prim delicately wraps the free end of the rope around her wrist. "I'm going to take Lady out to the Meadow to feed. You can go inside if you want." She gestures her head toward the front door.

I blink a couple times as I absorb what Prim just suggested. She wants me to go inside while she leaves with her pet, leaving Katniss and I, presumably, alone in the house. Goddamn, this girl is a genius. Prim doesn't wait for me to respond. She slinks past me with her goat following behind.

"Are you supposed to go alone?" I ask quickly. Sure, she's a great wingman, but I don't want her to do anything she shouldn't for my benefit.

"Don't worry. I do this all the time," she promises. "Don't be afraid of Katniss. She doesn't bite."

The goat bleats in agreement. That's what I tell myself anyway.

So now, miraculously, I find myself standing in the Everdeen's front yard; steps away from entering their home or steps away from running back to mine. My mind jumps back and forth between my curiosity to see where Katniss comes from and potentially hurting our delicate friendship.

_Katniss doesn't bite. Sure._

I can hardly believe I'm doing this, but while I have the adrenaline going, I push through the nerves and trudge up to the front door. I turn the creaky old knob and the creaky old door that leans slightly to the right swings open. The interior isn't much to take in. A sagging couch and standard issue television in one corner, a small, banged up dining table in the other. A typical District 12 stove with a tall cupboard and second open window beside it. Several braided rugs cover the bulk of the flooring. And Katniss stands over the sink with her shoulders hunched.

"Hey," I call out softly.

Katniss straightens up and faces me. Her eyes are searching behind me for something. "Where's Prim?" she asks.

"She went to the Meadow to feed Lady."

"Ah," Katniss exhales. She leans her back against the counter and folds her arms up. I'm glad Prim was telling the truth about her taking Lady to the Meadow often. I'd hate to tell Katniss or her mother that I lost Prim.

Speaking of which. "Where's your mother?" I ask.

"She must be on a house call," Katniss explains. "There are some people she takes care of who are too feeble to leave their homes." She starts kneading the spot where her neck meets her shoulder. My presence in her home is really getting to her. This isn't something she ever envisioned or looked forward to. Just like I told Prim, Katniss shouldn't let a guy be anything but nice to her. I'm not going to be the careless jerk.

"I can go," I say with one foot over the threshold.

"No, it's fine," Katniss replies, her voice tight, her hand never letting up on her shoulder. It's not reassuring. "You let me see your house." She waves her arm out in front of her. A lackluster invitation if I ever saw one. Does she think she owes this to me? I suppose the common rules of etiquette would say that she does. Well, she'd never forgive me if I didn't let her make up a debt.

I take a few tentative steps into the center of the room. I leave the door open because it's warm out and having it open creates a nice cross breeze. "So, this is your house," I say idly.

"This is my house," she repeats.

"Where you live," I continue, feeling the need to fill up the silence.

"Where I live."

Okay. Now I need to come up with a sentence where she can't just repeat what I say.

I take in a few more special details after a more thorough observation of the room. Like the faded blue curtains on each window that move elegantly with the gusts of wind. They have intricate scalloped edging. I recognize it because I've made the same edging on cakes with frosting. They're the kind of curtains my mother would be jealous of, if they weren't so faded. The dining room table, although heavily indented, has a bright bouquet of yellow wildflowers decorating it. They're much nicer than the flowers from the florist. The flowers sit in a tin can, but that doesn't distract from their beauty. The cupboard is adorned with several kid-like drawings that rise and fall with the wind. It feels like a home.

I doubt Katniss is ashamed of her house. She doesn't strike me as the kind of person who would be embarrassed to be from the Seam, nor should she be. She earned and created this home. And that's a huge accomplishment considering her youth and how her father passed away. It's more likely Katniss didn't want me to come because her home is her refuge which she fights hard to protect. Letting people in is dangerous. That means having more people to take care of or letting others know how they could take advantage. She doesn't let people in. Yet here I am.

"I like it," I tell her in complete honesty. It doesn't matter what her house looks like. I merely like that I'm in it.

Katniss finds her hunter's composure, revealing no emotion in her expression. She pushes off the counter and walks in the direction of the table. I follow her initiative and pull out a chair for myself. Just as we're about to sit, an orange ball of fur jumps into the open window. It meows loudly.

"Is that the famous Buttercup?" I inquire. Katniss sighs and nods, taking a seat at the table. I want to sit down, but can't. The cat appears to have been in several scuffles with a coyote. He's not even a close match to the majestic animal described in Prim's poem. His black pupils are narrow slits across his huge, unblinking, yellow eyes. His ears tilt back while his tail twitches from side to side menacingly. "Why does he look like he wants to kill me?"

Katniss leans her chin into her palm. "That's how he always looks at me, too. Don't take it personally."

And as if the cat could understand her, he hisses, arches his back, and hops from the windowsill, and back outside.

I finally take a seat and set my shoulder bag on the floor, but unfortunately, a conversation does not magically commence. Katniss focuses her eyes on the yellow wildflowers, touching the petals with her thin fingers. I busy myself with skimming my hands over the pockmarks in the table top. If not for the indentations, the surface would be as smooth as butter and no different from the table in my kitchen. That makes sense. The table must have been a wedding gift from some townie. That's where Katniss' mother came from.

If I had any confidence I'd ask Katniss about the history of the table, but I don't, so I fall into a conversational stand-by. "How have you been?"

"Fine," Katniss says in a monotone, like she's bored. Wow. Bored in less than three seconds. Record breaking. "The rain made hunting more difficult the past few days."

"Yeah, I can imagine," I say automatically, then reconsider. What am I talking about? I don't know what it's like to be in the woods. "Wait, no. I really can't imagine." I have no frame of reference. In the past, Katniss has been tight-lipped on this topic, in the specifics of it anyway. What a difference it would make if I had some idea of what it was like. I'm willing to take the risk. "How do you do it? Hunt, I mean."

"Years of practice," she deflects artfully.

"Doesn't it scare you to be out there?"

Katniss removes a stem from the tin can. The flower has wilted more than the rest of the bouquet. She starts pulling off the brown-tipped petals one by one. "At first, when I went out alone, I was scared," she confesses. Her eyes follow the petals she removes. My eyes follow her eyes, hoping she'll look at me. "I didn't go far, and every time I heard even a dog howl I'd run back inside the fence as quick as I could. It's like anything, I suppose. You just have to become accustomed to it and learn. Every day I went a little further and eventually it wasn't scary anymore."

"And your dad taught you?"

A gust of wind comes through the window sending the unbound petals across the surface of the table. I pick one up and twirl it between my thumb and index finger.

"Um…yeah. He taught me a lot of things," she says stiffly.

I wonder if what we're doing right now is similar to her first expedition into the woods. Our afternoons spent together were scary at first because it was something new, but with time and experience it becomes easier, and eventually, enjoyable. There's quite a bit of evidence that says talking to me hasn't become much easier for Katniss, which is why I'm shocked when she keeps talking without provocation.

"He taught me how to identify plants. How to forage. That's just as important as the hunting part."

"How'd you get so good with a bow?"

My question finally provokes Katniss enough to look to me in the eye. "How do you know how good I am?" she asks accusingly.

"I've eaten your squirrels. You shoot them through the eye." I point at my own eye. "I didn't think a squirrel could sit still long enough for anyone to get it through the eye."

"Never shoot into the trees. That's how you lose an arrow," she states knowingly. "Wait till it stops to eat."

"And have unbelievable aim."

"That does help," she says with a smirk.

"So modest," I tease. She ducks her chin into her chest to hide her arrogant smile. Thank God for that smile. Kills me every time. "Show me."

"Show you what?" she asks with the lift of her eyebrow.

I scoot my chair back and stand up. "How to shoot," I reply.

"I don't have my bow here."

"So? We'll pretend." I step out into the open area in front of the couch. "Come on. Teach me," I beg playfully. And maybe I have potential when it comes to hunting and trapping, because Katniss stands up and takes the bait.

"Well, for starters your posture is all wrong," she critiques. Katniss saunters up and stands directly in front of me. I recognize it as the perfect distance for leaning my head down and letting my lips brush against hers, just like I was imagining earlier. Instead, she lightly kicks my ankle. "Move your feet shoulder width apart."

I do as Katniss says. She takes a step back and observes my stance. I must still be doing it wrong because she's got that same crinkled forehead Prim had when she was thinking hard about something.

"Relax," she orders.

"It's hard to relax when you're making that face at me." Or standing in the same room as me. Whatever.

Her eyebrows shoot up. "What face?"

"Like you're judging me."

"I_ am_ judging you. You told me to teach you," she whines, already annoyed. Yeah, this girl is not meant for teaching if she's irritated before the lesson even starts.

I do my best to relax my shoulders. "Okay, okay. I'm relaxed. I swear."

Katniss rolls her eyes. Then settles into a place beside me, relaxing into the same stance I am. I should have thought of this sooner. Of course she'd be relaxed doing something she knows so well. Now only if she could associate that relaxed feeling with being around me, I'd be set.

Katniss orders additional instructions. "Keep you back straight. Keep your head centered. Um…" She pauses, unsure how to illustrate the following steps without an actual bow and arrow. She holds her right hand out in what I think will be an uncomfortable pose. "Curl three fingers around the string."

I copy her. And I was right. Although my fingers are strong from kneading dough, it does feel uncomfortable to bend my middle, index, and ring finger without tucking them into a fist. I can't imagine how much it would hurt while pulling on the string of a bow.

"Tuck your thumb in. Keep the back of your hand flat," Katniss instructs.

I follow along, but my fingers are already tiring from the strain.

Katniss lift her left arm out in front of her. "With your bow hand, have your thumb and index finger make a Y."

This action is much simpler. We both clasp our left hands around our invisible bows. Even with nothing there, I can see the sinewy muscles in Katniss' arm flex and relax.

"When you draw the bow," she says as she lifts her arms up to eye level and then pulls back the imaginary string. Her eyes stay targeted on something ahead of us. "You should be using the muscles in your back. Not your shoulder and elbow."

I imitate her fluid motion, but I don't carry any of the tension in my back, nor can I imagine how feels. At the bakery, we're reminded daily to lift with our knees, not our backs. "That's hard to imagine."

"That's why most people learn with an actual bow," Katniss scoffs. She drops her hands, sidesteps behind me and places her palm in the middle of my back. Her hand is small, but incredibly warm. It amazes me that she finds ways touch me that don't necessarily mean anything, but they happen all the same. Whenever I try to touch her, it ends up falling flat—like when I tried to push her hair behind her ear. "Focus on pulling your shoulder blades together."

I attempt the motion once more, imaging the pull of the string while concentrating on her hand on my back. I'm not sure I have the feel for it yet, but I want to get on with the lesson, so I pretend I do. "I get it."

Katniss returns to my side and gracefully moves her hands and arms back into the pose. "When the bow is held in the vertical position, then you can concentrate on aiming, while maintaining the tension in your back."

I choose to aim for the open window. I'm sure I'd need a much larger target if I was shooting with a real bow, but I think I have a natural knack for imaginary archery.

"The release is the most important step," Katniss says quietly. She must be seeing potential prey in her mind's eye. Best not to frighten it off with excessive noise. "Let the string slip off all your fingers at the same time. Don't let the bow fall."

I let my arrow fly. It whizzes through the window and hits its intended target on my very first try. "Did you see that?" I throw my hand above my eyebrows like I'm peering over a vast landscape.

"What?" Katniss asks, searching for something tangible in the same place I am.

"I nailed that imaginary squirrel with my imaginary bow on my first try!" I exclaim proudly. Katniss huffs and stops hunting for something she's not going to find. "You're a good teacher," I say to flatter her, even though I only partially mean it.

"I don't know about that," Katniss muses. She drops onto the sagging sofa. Puffs of dust flutter in the air when she hits the cushion. "Imaginary squirrels are notoriously easy to hit."

I laugh at her joke. Without thought or invitation I sit down next to Katniss on the couch. Not even the opposite end; the seat right next to her. And to my even greater astonishment, she doesn't shy away. I wonder when I'll stop being surprised by this kind of thing. Considering how low my expectations are, it may be awhile.

The sofa is surprisingly comfortable, despite the way it leans toward the middle. My heart swells up with delight when I observe the lazy smile on Katniss' face. It illuminates all her features. "I wish I could do something like you do."

"You bake. I can't do that."

"Yeah, but anyone could learn that," I shrug. Well, not everyone. Miche's girlfriend Grace is pretty terrible at it. "What you do is different. A lost art."

"And I hope it stays that way. I don't need more competition," Katniss says. She makes a good point. As far as I know, her only competition is Gale. Funny thing for her and me to have in common.

I lean back into the cushion and get more comfy. Katniss leans her left elbow onto the armrest and rests her head in her hand. Her right hand lies on the outside of her thigh, right next to mine actually. It would take no effort to just lift my hand and grip hers. If this were any other girl I wouldn't give it a second thought. I slide my hand over the pebbled fabric. My pinky finger just barely skims the side of her hand. It's just a test to see what would happen. Nothing does. When I say nothing, I mean, she doesn't recoil or anything.

"Well, I know your secret technique now, so all I need is a bow," I gulp. I give myself one more second to work up the courage.

"Oh, those squirrels are already trembling," she taunts.

Before I can issue a comeback or act on my plan to hold Katniss' hand, the feminine sound of a woman clearing her throat interrupts our banter. A thin, yellow-haired woman with a heavy canvas bag stands in the threshold of the open front door. She's not smiling. "Hello," she greets questioningly.

Katniss springs up from the couch. For some reason, my motor skills are impaired and I'm unable to move. I can't figure the reason. It's not like we were caught doing anything but talking.

"Mom. This is Peeta Mellark from school," Katniss explains coolly, but hastily. "Prim wanted to introduce him to her pets." Katniss stares me down much like Buttercup did, and my brain and muscles figure out how to get my butt off the couch.

"Yeah, exactly," I confirm when I'm upright. "I met the whole menagerie. Lady and Buttercup. He hissed at me. The cat, that is, not the…goat." My ridiculous sentence loses steam. I realize now, I should have clarified whether or not Mrs. Everdeen knows about me walking her daughters home from school before I came to their house. If she does, then my presence here should be expected. If she doesn't, well, she's a mom. She's going to be pissed.

The contents of Mrs. Everdeen's bag clatter when she leaves the threshold, holding her hand out for me to shake. "It's nice to meet you, Peeta," she says calmly yet coldly.

_Oh yeah. She didn't know. _

I take her hand and attempt to speak as few words as possible. "Same, Mrs. Everdeen."

"Where's your sister?" Mrs. Everdeen asks in a clipped tone.

"She took Lady to the Meadow," Katniss answers.

"Would you get her for me? I need some help making a salve for Mrs. Hollow's daughters. They have the chicken pox." Her voice sounds oddly clinical, but not harsh. Detached.

"Sure," Katniss responds. She looks at me and…I should probably say something.

"I should be getting home anyway," I mutter.

Mrs. Everdeen says nothing. I can take a hint. I quickly go to the table and grab my bag. When I turn around, Katniss rubs at her neck again.

"The Meadow is on the way back to town," Katniss murmurs. "I'll walk with you. Then you can say goodbye to Prim."

"Great." Because it is great. I need to get out of here before Mrs. Everdeen decides to start talking. As scary as her silence is, I have a feeling her words would be worse. "It was nice meeting you, Mrs. Everdeen," I repeat, which must make her doubt my sincerity. _Geez. _

"You too, Peeta," Mrs. Everdeen says as I walk past her. Katniss closes the door behind us and we both release a sigh of relief. I wait until we're beyond the front gate to say anything.

"That was…awkward," I mutter. That wasn't the first time I've ever met a girl's parents. I've picked a girl up for a date, shaken hands with her father, and had my collar straightened by her mother. It usually goes a lot better than that. Not to brag, but I'm the kind of guy most parent's are glad to see. I'm polite. I'm friendly. I come from a good family. Mrs. Everdeen stared at me like she wanted to castrate me on the spot. "Does she know I've walked you home before?"

"Of course. Prim talks about it all the time."

Oh. Then I guess I was wrong about Mrs. Everdeen not knowing. This makes the situation and the way she acted toward me that much worse.

"I've never had a friend over," Katniss says under her breath, her eyes on the path in front of us.

I'm equal parts elated and saddened. I'm thrilled that Katniss just referred to me as her friend. I'm disappointed she's never had someone to spend time with outside of school.

God, my brain is slow today. She does have that. "Don't the Hawthornes come over?" I ask.

"That's not the same," Katniss shrugs. "My mother knows them."

The thing is, Mrs. Everdeen does know me, kind of. That is, she knows my father. "I don't think that's all there is to it. I think she was uncomfortable because of _me_ in particular."

"What did you do to her?" Katniss asks jokingly.

"I didn't do anything," I assure her. I'm pleased Katniss can return so easily to our former cheerfulness, but that's only because she doesn't know the whole story of our parents. "Did you know that our parents grew up together?"

Katniss kicks a small rock. It bounces down the dirt path. "I never thought about it, but that makes sense," she acknowledges. The merchant class is such a small community, everyone knows each other. That's why all the gossip happens.

"Yeah, and I think they used to date," I say bluntly, hoping the quicker I say this, the easier it will be. "My dad and your mom."

Katniss turns her now wide eyes on me. She blinks a couple times; then drops her eyes back on the path. When we reach the rock she booted previously, she kicks it again.

The silence makes me anxious. Maybe I shouldn't have told her. "I don't really know the whole extent of it," I say hurriedly. "Only that my dad wanted to marry your mom. Your mom never told you?"

Katniss shakes her head. "I don't know much about her when she was young. I only know that she loved my father very much."

"Of course, yeah," I sputter. Now I'm the one gripping the strap of my bag as I try to collect myself. "I don't mean to say your mom slighted my dad or anything like that." Even though that is what my dad led me to believe. When one uses the phrase, "ran off with a coal miner," it implies being slighted. But I can't say stuff like that about Katniss' mother in front of her. Come to think of it, I can't say something like that about Katniss' mother _ever_. That's the kind of gossip that will screw you over. No question. And I don't need further assistance in convincing Katniss I'm the world's biggest ass. Not exactly part of my strategy in getting her to like me. "It's just, you know, a weird coincidence," I blurt out.

"What coincidence?"

_What's the coincidence?_ The coincidence is that one Mr. Mellark was in love with one Miss Havemeyer, now one Mrs. Everdeen. They married other people; and now, the son of Mr. Mellark is in love with the daughter of Mrs. Everdeen. "Uh…I don't know," I lie. This conversation needs to stop before I make it worse. "I don't know what I'm talking about," I ramble. Here's that moment when I realize what an idiot I am. "Just don't think I'm a jerk, okay?"

We pass the last house of the Seam. Beyond that house sits the park I suggested Katniss and I visit. We must have passed it on the way to the Everdeen house, but I was too keyed up to notice. I didn't know it was called the Meadow. My mother calls it a waste of land and that they should build something useful here—like a chicken hatchery. It would be a disappointment to build anything on this untouched land. There are so few beautiful things to see in District Twelve.

I notice Prim standing a ways off with Lady. She waves to us with a bouquet of yellow flowers in her hand. I wave back. She tugs a reluctant Lady toward us.

Katniss plucks a tall stalk of grass and runs her fingers over it, knocking grass seeds to the earth. I find a similar stalk and hook three fingers around it. I keep the back of my hand flat and tuck in my thumb, just like Katniss taught me. I grasp my imaginary bow in a Y formation, point my arrow up into the sky, and release all my fingers at the same time.

"I got an imaginary duck that time," I say proudly.

Katniss nods her head like she saw the whole thing happen for real. "Nicely done. You're improvement is quite impressive," she muses.

Then this thing happens, where I look Katniss in the eye and she looks me in the eye at the same time, and then we both look at our shoes, like they're suddenly very interesting. It's actually rather comical and I feel like I'm ten years old. My stomach twinges in a familiar way. This time, I don't mind it so much.

"I think you have potential," she says, wringing the blade of grass between her hands. It's nice of her to say, but we both know I'm not going into the woods anytime soon, if ever. "And…I…don't think you're a jerk, Peeta."

I don't get a chance to respond because Prim is only a yard away. In fact, when Prim gives me a hug, I don't say anything but a quiet goodbye and a promise to see them again next week. I go home much too happy that neither of the Everdeen sisters thinks I'm a jerk.


	7. Chapter 7

A/N: Once again, sorry for the long wait. For their patience, my amazing readers will all receive a set of imaginary bow and arrows. Let me know what you get with them.

This chapter is dedicated to the lovely Medea Smyke. Although she probably doesn't remember, she had a specific request for this story, which occurs in this chapter. Little does she know I had a plan for that even before she asked. I hope it doesn't disappoint. And many thanks for helping me come up with a name for the new character in this chapter. Boo Boo sends his love.

**This chapter is rated M for adult language. **

Reviews are always appreciated. Enjoy.

**Chapter 7: **

"You're in a good mood," Boothe, son of the town grocer and one of my good friends, observes.

I stop humming the tune of the song we sang in music class this morning to mull this statement over. A good mood? Well, I did make the winning goal for my team in the soccer game we played during gym today. So glad to be done with field hockey. I stand much less chance of getting whacked in the head playing soccer. The weather is nice, even with the occasional rain. We're in the final weeks of school, and that makes everyone a bit stir crazy. There are plenty of reasons to be feeling good, and I haven't even listed the most important one.

"I had a good day," I say casually. _And I'll have an even better afternoon._

I throw the short sleeved shirt I wore to school over my head. My hair, still damp from the shower, gets the collar wet. Ah, well. It can dry in the sun.

"Any plans today?" Boothe asks. He follows up by shaking out his hair like a wet dog, sending additional droplets of water all over my shirt. _Nice_.

Slightly more damp than before, I sit on a bench and attend to my shoes. "Nothing special." I shrug. It's an outright lie. Man, I live for Tuesdays.

"Do you want to hang out? Go to the park or something?" Boothe suggests. He's still getting dressed; in fact most of the class is still in the shower. What can I say? I rush to meet the end of the school day on Tuesdays.

"I can't," I mumble, tying up the last of the laces and folding my denim pants neatly over my shoes.

"You just said you don't have plans."

"I said I don't have any _special_ plans," I hedge. I pull my school bag from my locker. I made sure I took it with me to gym class so I don't have to stop at my regular locker to grab it before I meet Katniss. It only buys me a few extra seconds, but every second after the bells rings is crucial. Each stage of my Tuesdays has become meticulously planned. There are way too many risk factors involved.

"I feel like I haven't seen you in weeks, man," Boothe complains.

I'm glad none of the other guys are out of the shower yet. If they were, I'd be hearing this from all my friends instead of Boothe alone. One person asking questions is more than enough. "You see me every day," I point out. I do a quick mental check to confirm I have everything I need to take home. Math homework. Stuff for my Literature essay. History book. I have so much History reading to catch up on before the final—like an entire semester's worth.  
"Not outside of school," Boothe mutters.

Confident that I have everything I need for homework tonight, I slam my locker door shut, leaving myself free to give Boothe some attention. He and I have been friends since birth. Our parents run in the same social circle so we grew up together by default. We happen to have a lot in common, so it works out. One example is how he has to work in the market for his parents just like I have to work in the bakery. We compare battle wounds on a regular basis. Mine come from the ovens; his come from box cutters. We even arranged our work schedules to match up so we'd be free outside of school at the same time. However, I haven't spent my free time with Boothe in, well, a month and a half. I can't explain the situation to him, not unless Katniss and I start something…I don't know…official. My only option is to deflect. "Poor Boo Boo. Have you been feeling neglected?" I tease.

"Don't call me that!" he moans on cue. He got the nickname from his first girlfriend back in the eighth grade. It was private at first, but word got through the grapevine, and well, it stuck, even after they broke up. I may have had a hand in the name sticking around. Sure, it was jackass move of me, but come on. _Boo Boo_? It's become the infamous insult that never lacks for response. Every time I call him that his cheeks get all red and his shoulders scrunch up like an irate toddler. In this instance, he retaliates by chucking his wet towel at my chest. Thankfully, he's got his pants on.

The towel leaves a wet splotch on the front of my shirt. Katniss is going to think I sweat like a pig. I ball up the towel and toss it hard back at him. Sadly, he catches it. "No, really. How can I make this up to you? Buy you some flowers and candy? I know you like chocolate, Boo Boo."

"Don't be an ass, Peeta," he scowls.

I know Boothe to be a good guy, but to tell the truth, over the years I've learned he doesn't take a joke very well, even though he adamantly denies that. But I don't have much choice. I'm not about to divulge to him what my after school plans actually are.

Boothe grunts indignantly, pitching his wet towel into the bottom of his locker. It slaps loudly against the metal and is going to make the whole locker room stink with mildew by tomorrow. He's so predictable. This is the part when he acts like a child, or a woman, depending on who you ask. "Save it for someone who will appreciate it," he scoffs.

"Excuse me?" I say with a small laugh. What is he getting at? I mean, he couldn't mean…

Boothe vigorously pulls his too big shirt over his head; a hand-me-down from his older brother that is two sizes too big on his skinny frame. Something else we have in common: older brothers. "Look, if you want to blow off your friends, that's fine. Just be up front about it."

I'm concerned when I hear multiple taps in the shower begin to turn off. Without the noise of the water everyone will be able to hear our conversation…argument…whatever.

"I'm not blowing you off. I told you I already have plans," I tell him carefully, keeping my voice at a low volume. I haven't actually been forced to lie to him or any of my friends yet. I will if I have to, but I don't want it to come to that. It just makes things weird and complicated.

"What kind of plans?" Boothe questions.

Damn it. I'm out of evasive maneuvers. "I'm just hanging out with some people. No big deal."

"People?" His pale brown eyes burn with impatience. I'd be annoyed too if I were in his place.

"I'll hang out with you this weekend," I promise weakly.

Boothe shrugs his shoulders and begins working on the knots he puts in his shoes everyday that make it impossible for him to get them back on. It's messed up that I know his routine down to the smallest detail, but I haven't shared this huge piece of news with him. I _have_ crossed that line into deceiving my friends. I can't deny it. And I was right. The tension between Boothe and me is weird and uncomfortable. Unfortunately, there isn't much I can do about it at this point. It would just bring on more questions about what Katniss and I are doing, and I barely understand the situation myself. And if it were revealed, it would also put more attention and pressure on Katniss, and that would surely send her running. It has to stay quiet. I've been too patient for too long to screw it up now.

"Fine," Boothe says indifferently.

I open my mouth to say something encouraging when the bell cuts me off. My eyes instinctively dart toward the door. Boothe notices.

"You'd better get moving. You don't want to be late for your date," he says with fake enthusiasm.

_My date?_ His words leave me frozen. I didn't say anything about a date or a girl, although my evasiveness would lead anyone to that sort of conclusion, not to mention one of my childhood friends.

_Don't panic. Just think for a second._

If Boothe knows; well, it's not the end of the world. Rilee mentioned that people have noticed, and I'm sure Boothe is just wondering why I haven't said anything. However, there's something in Boothe's sarcastic tone that hits me in the gut with a strange fear. When people hear rumors, when they have half the information, they make assumptions. It's human nature, or the nature of our society, something like that. With only part of the information, dangerous assumptions could be made about Katniss and me. A merchant? A Seam girl? Meeting privately outside of class and having no interaction otherwise? It's not how girlfriends and boyfriends behave. What would I think if I were in Boothe's position?

I feel utterly stuck in a trap of my own creation. I can't say anything, but I can't go on with this secrecy and let Boothe believe something about me that is damaging and completely off base. Not to mention I still need to walk across campus to meet Katniss and Prim.

"It's not what you think," I whisper hastily. The showers have all turned off. I have to depend on the noise of opening and closing lockers and people making crude jokes to cover my voice. Sorry to say, Boothe sees no reason to whisper.

"Oh really? What should I think, Peeta?" he asks accusingly, looking up at me through narrowed eyes.

"You know me, Boothe," I say lowly. "You think I'm capable of doing something like that?" I could have just as easily asked, do you think it's wise to request…er…proposition _Katniss Everdeen_? I'd be lucky to have all my extremities by the end of that sentence.

Boothe gives up his unsuccessful knot untying effort and drops his shoe on the floor. He cracks the knuckles of his right hand, then his left, the way he does when he's really thinking something over. I know his every tick and Boothe undoubtedly knows mine. I'm the same kid who sat in the backroom of his dad's store sticking toothpicks and marbles into old potatoes to turn them into toys. I see him struggle to reconcile the opinion he's formed of me over a period of sixteen years and my confusing actions as of late. He might even feel guilty for doubting me. But if the rumors were true, I wouldn't be the first merchant to seduce a Seam girl, and Katniss wouldn't be the first person desperate enough to be taken in.

Boothe lightly smacks his fist against his forehead a couple times—like he's jump starting his own brain. "Look man, I've been defending you, I swear," he says pleadingly.

_Defending me? _Against who? My other so-called friends? The girls I used to date? If they're spreading this kind of garbage about me then they're hardly my friends.

Boothe slowly stands up, but avoids looking me in the eye. "I know you would never pull that kind of shit. But why all the sneaking around?"

"We're not sneaking around," I say quickly. "I want to be friends with her, and she's a private person. It's the way it has to be right now." I'm thankful that everything I say is truthful. Boothe eyes me carefully, and after a few seconds, a look of relief passes over his face as he accepts my reasoning.

"Fine. I believe you," he says with a steadying breath. He indiscreetly looks over both shoulders to see if anyone is around—very similarly to the way he would look out for adults while my brothers and I attempted to sneak cookies when we were kids. When he's satisfied no one is paying attention, he leans in closer and whispers, "But there's been some nasty shit going around, so just, be careful."

I take his warning seriously. I don't want to lose my reputation or my friends, the ones who I can still call friends, whoever they are. But at the same time, I'm not going to lose Katniss over this. "I've got it under control," I say confidently. Then I pat him on the shoulder in an act of masculine affection to reassure him. The situation is bad, but not hopeless. It is _only_ gossip. The kids will move on when they realize there is no scandal and nothing remotely gossip-worthy going on.

I'm thrilled when I finally leave Boo Boo and the locker room behind and am on my way back to the academic building. Luckily, with all my preparations I won't be late; I just won't be early. The classrooms are empty and a majority of the students have already fled the campus, which actually works to my benefit because with the halls mostly empty I walk from building to building and have my intended destination in my sights in record time. Unfortunately, my sights seem to be deceiving me because there isn't a soul waiting for me at the familiar spot near the entrance

I pause. I turn around once. I look down one hall. I quickly jog around a corner to look down another corridor, while keeping an eye on that spot in case Prim and Katniss magically appear. But there's no one, I mean, no one I care to see. I should have asked Katniss more about hunting. Not that knowing how to track deer would be very helpful in the pursuit of a sixteen year old girl. I wander back to the meeting place, quickly glancing right and left like an idiot. I must look like I'm lost, and I can't help feeling that way. Should I wait for them? They waited for me a couple of times.

I lean against the wall with a rapidly inflating bubble of anxiousness developing in my gut. She was in school today. I saw her in history class like I do every day. Why wouldn't Katniss show? Low expectations or not, last week went great. We talked and laughed and I think she may have cracked a joke or two. She even gave me a compliment—in a somewhat backwards way. I gave her no reason for her to stand me up a week later. Can one be stood up when it's not a real date?

A cheery couple holding hands meanders by me as I wait. God is obviously mocking me. They stop at a locker. He watches her with hungry eyes as she puts in her combination with practiced ease. With the same amount of effortlessness, he leans in and kisses her cheek. And now, on top of anxiousness I'm struck with abstract jealousy. That should be me, or at least, that should be us. Six weeks. That's the longest relationship I've ever had—or non-relationship, as it were. The theories about Katniss and me are so far off it's laughable. We haven't kissed. We haven't held hands. We've barely touched. I put in all this effort and what do I get out of it? I get stood up for my non-date.

With a grunt of aggravation I rub the bridge of my nose with my fingertips. I wonder where my good mood went. I can't let the stuff Boothe said get to me, and I can't fault Katniss for not being like other girls. That's one of the things I love about her, what makes her special. Katniss not being here when I expected her to be is obviously shaking my confidence.

The same couple practically floats in front of me as they walk toward the exit. I look listlessly at the doors as the couple pushes them open. A rush of cool wind prompts the guy to put his arm around the girl, which she happily accepts. Although Katniss' absence is not encouraging, I take comfort in the fact that she's always been honest. If she hated my guts she'd tell me to test the electric fence with my face.

I consider checking down the hallways again. To give myself something to do, I guess. Just as the wind is about the slam the doors shut, a brief flash of something yellow catches my eye, something familiarly yellow. The doors close with a loud bang that echoes through the hall. I walk in an idle circle, then another. What was familiar about that yellow? Thinking again, it wasn't actually yellow, it was blonde, almost white in the bright sunlight. Holy…

I burst out of those school doors like the building is on fire. I look left and right and left again until I see the flash of blonde hair being dragged off by a girl with hair the color of melted dark chocolate.

"Katniss!" I shout without thinking. I start running after them without giving much thought to that either. Katniss and Prim aren't that far off and Prim seems like she's reluctantly being led away—like Lady being pulled from the Meadow last week. "Hey! Katniss!" I yell a second time. Prim hears me and whips her head back with Katniss' hand still wrapped around her wrist. I skid in front of them, bringing Katniss to a halt. She keeps her eyes trained to the ground. "Katniss, didn't you hear me?" I ask, slightly winded.

"We need to get home," Katniss says bitingly.

"Is something wrong?" One look at Prim and I don't get that impression. She's got a big smile on her face, though it deflates some at the sound of Katniss' clipped tone.

"No," Katniss says with a shallow shake of her head.

"You looked like you were in a hurry," I comment, because apparently I like to point out the obvious. I might want her to deny that she is trying to get away from me.

"We need to get home," Katniss repeats. Prim shakes her wrist free from her sister's grasp and rubs it with her tiny hand. I don't think she's really hurt, but the look of frustration on her face is disconcerting. Katniss is harsh and guarded, but she's not unkind. I worry that something has actually happened, perhaps to her mother or one of the Hawthornes. Rilee better not have picked another fight with Gale.

"What's the matter?" I ask gently, hoping to convey my genuine concern, and a bit fearful of the answer.

"I have a headache," she mutters. Then she kicks a crack in the sidewalk with the toe of her boot.

_Oh, well, if it's as bad as all that, of course you should stand me up_. I can't believe she's actually rivaling Boothe in childishness. I fight against rolling my eyes. I keep all the bitterness inside however, when I tenderly say, "I'm sorry to hear that. Is there anything I can do?"

"I just need to get home." She sighs, wrapping her tense hands around the strap of her bag. I hate seeing her return to that stupid nervous habit. If only I could grab her hands and give Katniss some reassurance. _You can trust me. I can take care of you. _That's what touches like that are supposed to say. Who am I kidding? Holding her hand is just going to freak her out and she's already freaked out enough.

I run a familiar scenario through my head, the one where I take myself out of the picture in order to relieve Katniss of whatever discomfort she is going through. That would be the stand up thing to do, right? But she hasn't openly sent me away. And maybe babying her isn't the best thing for her. My conversation with Boothe has proven that Katniss and I can't remain in our own private bubble anymore, not without warranting rumors. And if I can get her open up just a little then she might be more receptive to my feelings about her or to having a relationship, which is ultimately what I want with Katniss. No sense denying that. We all need a little push now and again. Katniss is just going to have to suffer my persistence. What's the worst thing I could do? Make her headache worse?

"Oh. That's too bad," I say solemnly, massaging the back of my neck. "I was really looking forward to seeing you, both of you." I nod toward Prim.

Her eyes light up sweetly, but otherwise she holds onto a serious expression. "Katniss, maybe once you've had some fresh air, you'll feel better," Prim suggests.

I'm granted at long last with the honor of eye contact from Katniss. For a brief second she looks at me, then her sister, both of us pleading for her consent. She rubs the heel of her hand against her forehead and abruptly turns away from both of us. "Let's just get going," she snaps. If she was lying about having a headache before, she might not be any longer.

Prim and I walk steadily behind Katniss. Despite the warm rays of the sun, her body language couldn't be any colder. She stays a good three steps ahead of us. She's also walking much faster than normal, which unfortunately forces Prim and me to quicken our pace to keep up with her, which will in turn make our time together much shorter.

When we reach the square I can't help scanning the crowds expecting to see people staring back. Talking to Boothe has made me paranoid. There's nothing out of the ordinary. Just adults grumbling about how expensive the price of a good chicken is and kids rejoicing over how many days left in the school year.

When I look back at Katniss, she's another foot ahead of me. She doesn't even look back to check on her sister. This is so unfair. I didn't do anything. All the other times she gave me the silent treatment at least she had a reason. Now there's no excuse. She just can't keep up her side of a friendship. She'd rather ignore—

"So, Peeta, guess what this Friday is," Prim chirps beside me. I've been concentrating on the back of Katniss' head and Katniss has been focusing on ignoring me. It's lucky Prim isn't the type of kid who wanders off on her own.

"Hm…," I hum as I try to recollect what's special about this Friday. Nothing comes to mind. Hopefully, Prim didn't mention something last week when I was only partially paying attention to her. "Uh, it's the day my English essay is due."

"It's my birthday!" she declares gleefully. And for a moment, I forget about all the nastiness of town gossip and the Katniss' cold shoulder. I'm just happy for this selfless girl who deserves fanfare on her birthday.

"Another Everdeen birthday? This is quite the party month for your family," I say, recalling Katniss' birthday was a only a few weeks ago. Sometimes it can be disappointing to have your birthday the same month as a sibling. Most families would celebrate both their birthdays at one time to save money. Though I'm not at all surprised that Katniss would ensure her sister has her own special day. I'll have to make her something. I already made her cookies. She did mention she loves my cakes.

"The party is on Sunday." All parties are. It's the only day the miners have off. "It will be small, but a few of my school friends are going to come," Prim explains modestly.

"Sounds like a good time." Yellow cake or chocolate? Chocolate would be more expensive. There's no way I can steal a cake without somebody noticing. Maybe I can convince Miche to let me have it for cheap if I worked some of his hours. I'll suggest he spend some time with Grace. That will soften him up. I know he wants to propose. I can tell by the way he looks at her whenever she leaves the bakery.

"Will you come?" Prim asks quietly, but confidently. My mouth goes slack like open-mouthed fish. Why don't I ever see these things coming?

"Oh, Prim. I don't know…," I stammer. The tentative hope in her eyes flickers and fades until there's nothing but a disappointed frown on her face. That anxious bubble in my stomach pops. Now I've got guilty indigestion. It's made even worse given how determined an individual Prim is.

"Do you have to work?" she questions.

"No. The bakery is only open in the morning. My dad and my older brother run it." That would be a perfect time to make the cake. It's not very busy and if I help out then Miche could meet Grace in time for brunch and I could go to the party with a pink and yellow primrose covered cake.

"I know it's a twelve year old's party and that might not be very much fun for you," Prim says sheepishly.

"Prim, no," I immediately interrupt. "I know it would be fun." Of course I want to go to the party. I don't really want to play _Pin the Tail on the Donkey_, or whatever it is little girls do at parties, but it would make me happy to see Prim happy. And it would be a great opportunity to spend more time with Katniss.

_Oh. Dammit_. _Katniss_.

I haven't even considered what she's thinking. The only indication I have of that is the tense look to her shoulders. That isn't a good sign.

"It's just, you're my friend," Prim murmurs softly. She keeps her eyes on the sidewalk ahead of us, not because she's angry like her sister, it's because she's sharing her feelings. And aren't we all shy when we do something like that?"

"You're my friend, too," I assure her. At this, I notice two things. Prim's crooked bottom teeth when she grins and Katniss' shoulders relaxing as she slightly slows her pace. Unfortunately, we've been walking so fast we blew through the square and now we're only a couple blocks away from the edge of town.

"So, you'll come? At least think about it?" she requests, hooking her arm around mine and batting her eyelashes at me. Yeah, this girl knows how to get what she wants. Where did learn this stuff? Not her sister.

"I'll think about it," I promise. _I just have to convince your sister to let me come_. Although we haven't as much as looked at one another since this walk started, I can feel the static between us. Like the faint spark in the air before a lightning storm, we're on the precipice of something. I'm afraid it's going to involve a lot of begging on my part.

"You don't have to give me a present or anything," Prim adds.

I laugh, thinking of the "no presents" rule Katniss and I came up with. I don't mind amending it to exclude Prim's birthday. Katniss is just going to have to suffer through it. Besides, I've already got a picture of the frosting job painted in my head. "You're getting a present no matter what."

"No! I couldn't take it."

"Well, then I'll just have to give it to Lady. Does she like chocolate or yellow cake?"

Prim giggles—a sweet and precious sound. "I don't think she's ever had either." I can't help wondering if she's talking about herself and not her goat. Were those cookies I made the first bakery cookies she's ever had? I don't eat as many fresh treats as most people assume, but I always had cake on my birthday. Well, not _always_, up until age 13. Prim is still within the right age bracket, even by my mother's definition. She's getting a chocolate cake. No matter how many hours of extra work it costs me.

We reach the edge of town much too soon. I think about inviting myself over to Katniss' house, but I doubt the success of that idea. Katniss feels more vulnerable having me in her house, oddly enough. Nevertheless, she is not leaving until we have a conversation about the party. Even if we have to have it standing in the street. "Katniss?" I call out. She's still ahead of Prim and me, halfway to the Meadow. She stalls and we eventually catch up to her. "Katniss, can I talk to you?"

Katniss opens her mouth to say something, but Prim suddenly interrupts. "Mom might need my help. Mrs. Hollow caught the chicken pox from her daughters. She's going to visit them today," she explains in a mad rush. Katniss opens her mouth a second time, but I do right by my quick-thinking wingman and cut in.

"I'll see you soon, Prim."

"Bye Peeta!" Prim says cheerfully. She scurries away, without a hug this time, kicking up a trail of dust in her wake. Katniss just sighs, looking rather defeated. I can't blame her. Prim and I are always working against her, or for her, depending on how you look at it. And she's got that headache, too.

We're in an awkward place, literally and figuratively. We're standing in the dusty road with town on one side of us and the fences of the Seam on the other. Wordlessly, I gesture toward the Meadow with a flick of my head. Katniss leads on, as she should, since she knows this place better than me. We walk along a narrow path marked by grass that's been flattened to the ground. I watch my every step, afraid I'm going to trip over a gopher hole, while Katniss walks with her head up, confident of the terrain. We don't walk for very long or very far. I can still see the tall buildings in town in the distance. There's nothing special about the place she chooses to stop. The old brown grass from last summer mixes in with the new green grass of the spring on all four sides of us.

Katniss rubs at her temple with the fingers of one hand. She doesn't just look irritated like she did earlier. She looks like Prim did when I told her I couldn't say yes to her party invitation. _Crushed_. I'll never be good at the silent treatment. Seeing Katniss like this will always try my patience. "What's going on?" I ask.

None too surprising, she responds vaguely. "Nothing."

"You didn't say a word during the entire walk."

"Is that so different from usual?" she mutters under her breath.

_Depends on the day._

"Do you not want me to go to Prim's party?" I ask bluntly. Though she was in a bad mood before Prim brought up her birthday, so her answer won't explain everything.

"It's her party. She can invite whoever she wants." She shrugs.

Now I know how Prim, and Boothe for that matter, felt when I refused to answer give them a straight answer to their questions. "Do you not want me to give her a gift?"

Katniss shakes her head and releases a short huff. "I don't care if you give her a birthday present."

"Then why won't you even look at me?" I blurt out. My whole body tenses up, preparing for an attack. She does nothing, which stuns me, to be honest. I didn't mean to say that. And I can't believe Katniss doesn't have something biting to say in response. Instead, she does something much worse. She wraps her arms tightly around her thin body. Closing herself off. I couldn't touch her hand if I tried. "I thought we were past this," I grumble, the tone of my voice taking a harsh turn.

"Past what?"

"Past this silent treatment…thing," I sputter, feeling idiotic for not having a more definitive way of describing it. If she wants to be stubborn, whatever. That's the way she is. I can accept that. But I can't help feeling like it's more than immature stubbornness. She doesn't even want to try. "What happened to the girl I talked to last week?"

The look of quiet disappointment on her face morphs into a severe scowl. And I hate that look more than ever because I know it's supposed to scare me off, and she thinks it'll work. "Leave me alone," she snaps, rudely turning away and stomping down the path.

"Hey!" I shout, immediately running after her. I've been forced to do way too much chasing today. Playing _Hard to Get _is one thing, but this is not charming. When has Katniss ever been deliberately charming? I block off her path in the same motion I used to block people during the soccer game today. Noting the angry flush to her cheeks and the sharp angle of her eyebrows I see no reason to be gentle when I speak. "You blow me off. You practically run out of school dragging Prim behind you. If you don't want me around; fine, but at least give me an explanation," I demand.

"There were people talking," Katniss exclaims suddenly. She covers her mouth in surprise, apparently shocking herself with having said it.

I stagger backwards several steps, sucking in slow breaths. _There's been some nasty shit going around_, Boothe warned me. Who would say something to Katniss? How did she even find out? She doesn't talk to anyone. One more breath to calm myself. Yelling at Katniss isn't going to help. "People?" I hate the way my voice squeaks.

"Merchants," she spits like it's a dirty word.

"Who?" I press.

"I don't know all of their names," Katniss scoffs. "It doesn't matter."

"What were they talking about?" _As if I didn't already know. _

She tucks her free hand back under her arm. Although there's no one to hear us, her voice drops to a low murmur. "You and…me"

"What were they—"

"Stop asking me stupid questions," she interrupts abrasively.

"Stop giving me half answers," I bite back, though I will admit, I am asking stupid questions. It's the same story year after year. The names change but the gossip stays the same. So much of the same. But this is Katniss, the bravest person I know. She gets past an electric fence, breaks the law, and hunts alone in the forest. She's not some empty-headed townie girl who believes the world is coming to an end when Best Friend A tells Best Friend B she's a bitch behind her back. Shit like that doesn't exist Katniss' world. Well, now it does thanks to me. "You don't strike me as the kind of person who cares what other people think," I say slowly.

"I don't care," she replies flatly, making it impossible to tell if she's being sincere or not. Her actions today contradict what she's saying anyhow.

I close the distance between us by a few steps. "You're upset." A few more.

For a moment as quick as a lighting flash, Katniss' whole body clenches up from her forehead to her stomach. "I don't think we should be doing this anymore," she states, her voice firm.

I freeze. So does Katniss. The wind kicks up, causing the long grasses to sway and ripple like the waves of a large body of water, I assume. The largest body of water I've been near is the bathtub. The swaying effect on the grass leads me to fear that the ground is no longer solid.

I could kill them. Every single envious person who is driving her away from me with these cruel rumors. Does Katniss see how much it her suggestion hurts me? Does she see the anger in my eyes? It has to be affecting her too—the loss of this relationship; even though she uses vague words and clipped phrases to describe it. "Be a little more specific, please. Talking? Spending time together? Walking home from school?" I need to hear her say it. I need to know what I am to her. If it's anything more than an enemy I'm sure as hell going to fight for it.

"All of it," she answers.

"Can I ask why?"

"I think it's confusing and…misleading."

"Give me one example in which I mislead you." Okay…maybe I lied, sort of. Not real lies—the kind meant to hurt her or anyone else. Just little ones like using an umbrella as an excuse to talk or bringing her sister cookies to butter her up. Most girls would think that stuff was sweet, special. They want you to make a big deal out of getting their attention. My attention toward Katniss has become a big deal, only not the person that matters to me.

Katniss aggressively moves the hair from her face that has blown free from her braid with the gust of wind. "This isn't about you," she says, the emotion rising in her voice. Anger? Annoyance? Fear? I have no idea what it is.

"You just said you overheard people gossiping about _you _and _me_."

"Look," Katniss begins, pushing her hair away for the second and third time. The wind dies down to nothing and the ground feels sturdy again—that is, until Katniss looks up at me with her glassy gray eyes. She steps forward, toward me. She never steps toward me. "Everyone knows I'm dirt poor, the daughter of a coal miner, and a poacher. And I'm fine with that because all those things are true. I don't care if some stupid, frivolous merchant's daughter talks me down because of it."

_I do._ _I care._ I don't want anyone saying anything about Katniss. They don't understand the struggle she's been through and they don't see the beauty beneath her sun-burned skin. I see it. I've memorized it.

"But it's another thing entirely, if someone spreads word around town that I'm throwing myself at a merchant's son." Her voice is steady, but her hands are shaking.

"Katniss, I would never let anyone think that," I say seriously.

She shakes her head, giving no consideration to my statement. "You don't have any control over it," she replies wisely.

Katniss may be right. I can't prevent people from forming their opinions. It's already happened. But she's standing here telling me we can't…_be_ anymore. And it's not over something _I_ did. It's because of this fucking gossip that comes from people who have nothing better to do with their time than tear other people down. They shouldn't have this kind of power. "It's just one instance. If we wait another week they'll have moved onto something else. We know it's not…like that." It's happened before. It will happen again.

"How do you think your mother will feel about me when she hears the rumor? Your father?" she asks rhetorically.

My mother? She thinks the Seam is made up of the scum of the earth, so her opinion is hardly important. My father is a good man. He would never refuse business or even charity because of some rumors. However, the rumors have never included one of his sons. I don't know how he would react to that. I'm still working it out in my head when Katniss continues talking.

"Do you think they're going to be willing to trade with me after that?"

"I never really thought—"

"Why would you?" she interjects, sweeping her hand down the line of my body in a condescending gesture.

For the first time, I want to leave Katniss' presence. I _have_ thought about how a relationship with me could affect her, but all my thoughts were positive. In my rather mundane fantasies I bring her happiness. I try to put myself in Katniss' place and imagine what her thoughts on a relationship might be. Is it possible that she never saw anything good? Nothing but what could go wrong? And now it has. Why wasn't I prepared for this? She already inferred as to the reason. Because I'm a merchant. And merchants don't prepare for people to turn on them, but people from the Seam do.

"I can handle it," Katniss says, holding her hand out over the long grasses. She pulls a stem free from the ground and twists it between her hands. "But I have to think about Prim. What will people think of her if they believe her sister is one of _those_ girls?"

_Prim_. Katniss is protecting Prim. That isn't something I can dissuade her from doing; in fact, I would never want to.

Katniss takes advantage of my mute stupor and tries to swerve by me. I almost trip when I jump back in front of her to stop her. "Just…wait," I plead. My hands grip around her shoulders and I can't take the time to appreciate that I'm touching her. "I can fix this. People are wondering because we don't talk during school, but I can set everyone straight."

"It's because you're a merchant and I'm from the Seam. It's always going to be this way," she corrects. She shakes herself loose from my weak grasp. My hands fall to my sides. I search my mind for some kind of solution, but all I see is the whispers I should have paid more attention to during lunch; the people who saw me walking arm and arm with Prim; the warning Rilee gave me weeks ago that I should have taken more seriously. With all these "should have" thoughts going around in my brain, it's almost funny that Katniss reveals her own regret. "I should have listened to Gale," she laments, looking away from me and in the direction of the woods.

"What was that?" I ask automatically. The question requires no reply. I know what she said, not to mention what it means. "You talk about us with Hawthorne?"

Katniss takes a tentative step backwards into the grass, hiding the lower half of her body. "Prim has mentioned you," she hedges.

"Prim, huh?" I muse with distaste. I don't talk about Katniss with anyone out of respect for her privacy. I've never told her that outright, but I thought we had an unspoken understanding, which I'm quickly realizing was a mistake. "What does Hawthorne say about me?"

She pulls at some more grass, clenching it tightly in her fists. "What do you care? You don't know him." Now, I believe Katniss when she says she doesn't care what the townies or even the people from her own neighborhood think of her. But there are some opinions that matter to her greatly. Her mother, for one. Why wouldn't she date otherwise? And Prim; she'd do anything for her sister. And much to my dismay, Gale Hawthorne. And if it matters to her then it matters to me.

"Tell me," I insist.

Katniss stares down at the blades of grass in her hands. Without conscious effort, she weaved them into a knot of some kind—a rather strong one that doesn't break, even when she pulls on either end. She keeps her head down as she speaks. "He questions your motives."

"He thinks I'm trying to take advantage of you," I add, filling in the blanks for her. Unbelievable. It's no different from the trash being spread around by the townies. The only difference is it's Hawthorne who said it. "How is he any better than the merchants?" My hostility is not masked in the least.

Katniss tugs on her knotted blades of grass too hard and the link snaps. She throws all of it to the ground. "Don't put words in his mouth!"

"Well, what did you say in response?" I ask with raised eyebrows.

"I said you hadn't done anything like that. That you've been kind to Prim and to me," Katniss answers without missing a beat, which floors me just as much as the words themselves. She didn't have think about it or talk herself out of saying it. She just said it. She knows it's the truth. _She trusts me. _Could Hawthorne ever trust me? Unlikely, seeing as I don't trust him.

"And?" I push on.

Katniss' face, which was previously angry, falters into something that makes her look…younger. A bit like Prim actually. Her bottom lip juts out and her cheeks flush with a dark pink. She's…pouting? Katniss is always so abrasive and indifferent to everyone. I didn't think pouting was part of her personality anymore. I feel a strange warmth flow through me from my gut to my head. The anger I had for Gale and the townies and everything that's gone wrong today blows away with the next gust of wind.

"He said I was being naïve," Katniss finally admits.

_Katniss is naïve? Right._ "I hope you corrected him."

"Yes, Peeta. I told him you're the greatest boy who's ever lived. You're perfect," she says with a fantastic amount of exasperated sarcasm. I guess not all of her anger has yet to blow away. "And you have absolutely nothing to lose."

Katniss isn't naïve. She's dense. I've so much that I'm set to lose if this doesn't work it's overwhelming. "I do have something to lose."

"Your friends will forgive you," she scoffs, folding her arms up again against her body.

I can't stand to have her close herself off to me anymore. Wary of any gopher or snake holes, I slowly approach her until we're only an arm's length apart. I touch her elbows with my hands, her skin warmer than my cool fingers, gently tugging until she relents. I slide my hands down her arms, stopping at her wrists. All the while, Katniss stares at my hands and the odd things they've never done before. Her fingers twitch as my thumbs move in circles on the soft flesh of her forearm. "Not them. Katniss, I'm not letting you end this friendship just because people are prejudiced and stupid," I say in a hushed voice.

Katniss continues to stare. I continue moving my thumbs in the same lazy pattern in case it's causing some sort of hypnosis. The quiet is so strangely noisy. The grasses _whoosh _with the force of the wind. The crickets chirp and the birds sing in the distance. My heart is pounding so loudly she must be able to hear it. If she would only just look up I could lean forward and just…

Suddenly, her fingers ball up into fists and she pulls her wrists from my loose grip. Her arms disappear behind her back. When she looks up at me her face is utterly calm, and that scares me more than anything else today. "It's not up to you," Katniss says with no remorse, no regret. She brushes past me, and I'll admit it, I go into panic mode. The last time she purposely walked away from me was after the goat cheese debacle. If she was willing to cut me out of her life over that, my chances are much worse now.

"No!" I shout, turning in a circle and keeping in step directly behind her. "You're not walking away from this. Again." The serenity of our brief moment in the grass is stomped out like an ember that escaped from the fire.

"Peeta, we gave it a chance. It's just not going to work," she mutters with a wave of dismissal.

"A chance?" I all but laugh from behind her. "When have you ever given me a chance?"

This gives her pause. Katniss stops walking and turns around so suddenly I almost run right into her. "I have to protect my family," she seethes through her teeth.

"And what about you?" I question. She appears absolutely affronted by the suggestion—as if she needs someone to protect her. I quickly regroup. That's not what I mean. "You can't have any friends other than Hawthorne? Are you ever going to let anyone else into your world?"

"Like who?" she laughs humorlessly. "Seam kids who are so desperate they would sooner stab me for a slice of bread? Or merchants who would shun me because of some rumors?"

"Why not me?" I demand. "I share everything I can to convince you to trust me, and at the mere inkling of difficulty, you give up."

"You have other friends. Why do you put yourself through this? What do get out of it?" she pleads, because even now, after everything, she hasn't figured out what I get from this transaction.

"You!" I shout. Katniss' eyes go wide. I feel mine do the same. I see her throat move when she swallows and her eyes dart up and down my body as if she just realized how close we're standing. "I get you," I whisper, unable to stop myself from leaning in closer.

The wind flies through again, but she doesn't touch the hair that flutters over her confused face. Instead, I lift my trembling hand to her wrinkled forehead, sweeping my fingers down to her cheek and gathering the fine hairs behind her ear. Katniss blinks, the confusion in her eyes lingering. Her lips part. I tell myself Katniss is not like other girls. This isn't an invitation. She's just opening her mouth to tell me off once again in one way or another. So I give her a minute, or maybe it's only a second. It's impossible to tell when she's so close and my love for her grips my heart so intensely I can't think let alone count. I wait for the last possible moment to close my eyes, so that I don't miss. I recognize the shape of her lips the moment mine touch them. I've drawn them enough times. I should be able to recognize them. But there's no way to draw that overwhelming thrill that spreads through my body from the point where our lips touch.

I don't know how long my mouth lingers there, like I said, I don't have the wherewithal to count. All I know is Katniss is the one to pull away, not me. But that's okay because I doubt she saw it coming. She's not the only one. However, while we both may have been unprepared for the kiss, I am unprepared for what comes next. In a quick movement that I barely see, Katniss draws back her weight and thrusts hands to my shoulders, knocking me off balance and right onto my ass. I only catch a glimpse of her scowl before she silently retreats from me. I'm left in the grass, in the dirt, with a distinct feeling I'm no longer invited Prim's party.


	8. Chapter 8

A/N: Hello again! Not too long a wait this time. The benefit to totally procrastinating on _Scars_. Thanks for all the love and support. Readers will receive a kiss from Peeta, although I have to warn you, he's a bit scarred from his last kissing experience. Mwah!

You can follow me for teasers and innocuous twitter prattle: holymfwickee

Reviews are always appreciated. Enjoy.

**Chapter 8:**

I place book after heavy book into my bag. I have a ton of work to catch up on in basically every subject as I have not sat down to seriously do homework in several days. On top of that, finals are coming up next week, which means I have less than a week to cram. I'm hardly the only person who will be cramming in preparation for finals week by the way. There's really no point to practicing study techniques that will help you retain the information for longer than the duration of the test.

I pause and take a hard look at the cover of my History book before putting it in my schoolbag. The insignia of Panem—a stiff letter P with little flourish—along with the symbol of District 12—a pair of crossed miners' picks with a silhouette of a canary underneath—is printed on the front. After being used by myself, my brothers, my dad, and his siblings, the symbols have been drawn over with layers of graffiti—some more offensive than others. The edges of the pages have faded to an unhealthy yellow. The edges of Katniss' history book are black. I wonder how many generations of people with coal under their fingernails have studied from it.

"Hey Peeta!" someone calls out behind me. Boothe slides in between a few people to reach his locker, which is only three away from mine—a similar setup to the locker room in the gym. _Mellark, Meriwether, Miller, Myers._ I don't mind. If haven't gotten sick of Boothe in the last 16 years, I'm not liable to any time soon. However, Boothe has an issue with not being in touch with what is going on around him. So, even though he's no more than a foot away, he yells, "Still got history homework, huh? I figured you'd be done with that!" A few people walking by give him odd looks as they pass.

Looks like that have become nauseatingly familiar as of late. I've turned into a voracious eavesdropper, which is not a habit I ever wanted to pick up. I realized screaming at my friends for an explanation about the gossip surrounding Katniss and I would have been a bad idea. Not only would they have denied it, I would have created more drama. Instead, I invested myself in Vesta and her friend's conversations, trying to pick up my name amongst their whispers. This is where the curious stares came from. I must not be very discreet when I eavesdrop. And let me tell you, if I was annoyed by gossip before, I'm absolutely disgusted by it now.

I might have caught my name here or there, but I was never certain. And by Thursday, Gusset Fielding and Kinnian Klee, the senior class sweethearts, got in a massive fight over how controlling he was, providing everyone with sufficient gossip for the rest of the week and into the next. If there is anything I can depend on it's the cyclical nature of gossip.

"What makes you say that?" I ask while dropping the history book in question into my bag. It makes a blunt _thunk_ sound against the other books. The weight starts to wear on my shoulder, so I set the bag on the floor.

"You're always taking notes during class," Boothe remarks while carefully putting in the combination to his lock. Unfortunately he doesn't recall his combination as carefully and the door doesn't open on the first try. With a look of determination he starts turning the lock a second time. "You must have recopied the entire book by now."

"Hardly," I scoff. Take notes during History? Those scribblings are definitely not notes. Usually they're drawings, but this week they've been letters. Apologies. I've written six or seven of them, but the words are never right. They're too sappy or too cold or too long or too much repetition of the word "sorry". The letters never seem like something Katniss would respond to or actually read before using as kindling. "Are you getting together with the guys after school?" I ask idly.

With his combination still not doing the trick, Boothe kicks the bottom of the door a few times to persuade it to open. "Yeah. Why?" he mumbles distractedly.

"I thought I would meet up with you guys," I say casually, rearranging the remaining music book and half-empty notebooks on my locker shelf.

With a huff and a curse word under his breath, Boothe kicks the door one final time. It still refuses to relent. In a final act of desperation, he gives the handle a gentle tug. Just like frosting and women, a gentle touch is what the locker wanted all along, and it decides to pop open. Finally free of his battle with the locker, Boothe absorbs what I said. "Really?" he asks, dumbfounded.

I nod silently. Not only have I been short on my time with Boothe and my friends over the past month and half, in the past week I've been basically going through the motions of school and work. I don't talk or listen, unless I am eavesdropping. I can't bring myself to care about any of the things I used to, not when I have nothing to look forward to anymore. I might as well go hang out with my friends. I have to get back to some semblance of my former life, starting with my days off.

Boothe, with his unapologetic smile and eager gracelessness, hurriedly shoves a mess of papers and notebooks into his backpack and sputters, "Sure! Great! You're a way better forward than Jonah. Winning will be a cinch."

I can't help but smile at Boothe's enthusiasm. I've taken for granted the effect a single person can have on another person's life. Not to mention the effect the absence of a person can have on another person's life. I learned that lesson the hard way.

"I have to check in with Mrs. Gumm about my Earth Science grade before she leaves. I promised my dad I'd ask for some extra credit or something. Not that it'll do much this late in the year," Boothe mumbles. He really shouldn't go to the park at all. He should go home to study for finals, but he feels the same way about Earth Science that I feel about History. There's no purpose. I don't need to know the history of coal to bake bread nor does he need to know its chemical make-up to stock tomatoes. We just need to know how to burn it.

"Tell her to pass you so she doesn't have to have you in her class again next year," I suggest.

"Ha ha," Boothe replies in a sing song voice. He hastily closes the zipper of his backpack, catching several papers in the teeth, and then throws the unfortunate thing over his shoulder. "I'll meet you over at the park, okay?" He punches my arm lightly as a gesture of male camaraderie as he rushes by to get to Mrs. Gumm's classroom before she leaves.

That's one problem solved, I guess. I'm back on Boothe's good side. But I've got a much bigger problem with no idea as to how to go about fixing it.

I kissed her. I kissed Katniss Everdeen. And then she shoved me on my ass. The message behind that gesture was pretty damn clear. A shove to the ground rarely means anything except _get away from me._

I surprised her; I surprised myself to be honest. I had been so proud of how I had handled things thus far. I was diligent and persistent and so, so patient. I repeated my mantra to remind myself to keep my expectations low for six weeks. I was waiting for the moment when I knew it would be right to kiss Katniss. And I was happy to wait because the return would have been entirely worth it. I knew she was inexperienced. Kissing her before she was ready wouldn't thrill her; it would be a mistake. That's what I drilled into my head over and over again. But we were alone in a field, her gray eyes were all misty, her face was flushed with angry pink, and there wasn't anything else I could do but kiss her—like the hormonal idiot I am.

The following days, in addition to screening the gossip chain, I thought constantly about how I could apologize, but there was one important flaw in all of my plans: in order to apologize, Katniss would actually have to speak to me again, and that was unlikely. Not only was she ignoring me as per usual, now she was intermittently disappearing from the places I expected her to be. For example, she must have started sitting somewhere else during lunch because Madge was alone at her table. I didn't notice Katniss go in or out of school. I even changed my usual route to History class, just to see if I could bump into her accident, and somehow she snuck in without me spotting her. In fact, Katniss wasn't in History class today or yesterday, so either she is ill or she's going to great lengths to avoid me. That's when the letter writing strategy started.

I abruptly slam my now nearly empty locker shut. Most of the hallway has cleared out as I've been standing here. Maybe spending time with Boothe and the others will end up being a blessing. I can get my mind off of this hopeless situation for the first time in seven days.

I heave my bag over my shoulder, leaning slightly to the right with the weight of it, when I hear my name shouted behind me, similarly to before. I turn around quickly toward the sound. My bag swings and hits me in the stomach causing me to grunt awkwardly. My shoulders fall when I see the Rilee running down the hall shouting my name.

"Peeta! My favorite brother!" he yells.

_Nothing good has ever started with that statement. _

"What's up?" I grouse, hoisting my bag higher up onto my shoulder.

"I need a huge, epic favor," Rilee begins. He clasps his hands together to add to the dramatic effect. "Could you possibly cover my shift this afternoon?"

"It's my day off," I reply automatically.

"I know. That's why it's an _epic_ favor," he reiterates. Rilee's request is definitely epic; at least it is where Rilee is concerned. Miche and I do favors for one another occasionally, be it closing early or helping out on a frosting job. But Rilee never asks for favors because he does not want to be in the position of owing either of us anything. And that's fine. I don't want to owe him either.

I turn around as fast as my cumbersome bag will allow while informing him, "I've got plans."

With complete disregard for his usual pride and aversion to asking for help, he throws himself front of my path. "Please, little brother. I would owe you big time," he begs.

All these _pleases_ and _little brothers_ are not only fruitless, they're a bit off-putting coming from Rilee. It's too nice and…brotherly. I'm more comfortable when he's flipping me off. "You won't have to owe me anything because I'm not doing it," I answer as I push past him once more.

"You don't understand," he insists, keeping in tow with me. "I'm going out with _Kinnian Klee_."

This causes me to immediately pause. "Kinnian Klee?" I question aloud, giving Rilee a moment to say I heard him wrong. I'm kind of disgusted with myself for knowing the distinct specifics of Kinnian's breakup with Gusset as a result of all my gossip recon, but the fact of the matter is that the breakup was a scandal and it was mere days ago. There's no way she or any other reasonable person would be ready to date again so soon. Not to mention the connection Rilee has to the guy that was dumped. "But she just broke up with Gusset Fielding."

"Exactly!" Rilee exclaims like I shared some great news with him. "I'm going to take her out, she can complain about what a jerk Gus is and I'll agree. It's a great strategy!"

"Rilee, that is not a strategy," I say succinctly. Since he doesn't seem to get how using Kinnian's vulnerability against her is a bad thing, I move on to the other flaw in his plan. "Gus is _Grace's_ brother."

"So?" He shrugs.

"So, Grace is going to be your sister-in-law in the near future." Miche has yet to propose, but we all know it's going to happen. That's how most engagements work out. It's not a question of if, but when. "Dating her younger brother's ex is something of a jackass move, even for you."

Rilee shakes his head back and forth like he's somewhat embarrassed, but not ashamed, which is what he should be. "The connection is unfortunate, but it's a small community. You can find yourself connected to anyone in some weird way."

"That's no excuse."

"Look, I have liked Kinnian since—"

"Since she turned single _five days_ ago?"

"Since we were nine years old and we would get in trouble for jumping in mud puddles during thunderstorms," Rilee explains in a single breath. Now that he mentions it, I do remember watching a smaller version of Rilee scrub the kitchen floor on his hands and knees after he trudged mud all over it. I also remember being surprised that Rilee would do something like jump in mud puddles when he knew Mom would be upset. For all his sneakiness and deceptions, Rilee actually is well-behaved when it comes to Mom's rules. Keeping in her good graces is one of his talents. So to do something he knew would make her angry was just plain stupid. However, unbeknownst to me, that wasn't his intention at all. Jumping in mud puddles was a strategy to get close to Kinnian; it just came with some unfortunate consequences.

"She's been dating Gus since we were fourteen," Rilee laments quietly. And there, in his eyes, lies something I haven't seen in Rilee in a long time, if ever: genuine longing. "And now they're not together. I'm not going to let her slip through my fingers." My brother has been pining for Kinnian for nine years, and even though his plan is tactless, it comes from an honest place. His weak appeals tug on the one heartstring that I can't ignore.

"Fine. I'll cover your shift," I mutter.

Rilee lights up with delight, but doesn't look at all surprised, which must mean he knew I'd be a pushover. "Thank you. Thank you, little brother!"

He better not be lying about that mud puddle story or I will personally help Gus kick his ass.

"Your kindness will not be forgotten," he sings out as he runs in a different direction, presumably to meet up with Kinnian. I also hope Kinnian actually wants Rilee's company; otherwise I screwed two people over.

"You better tell Miche what's going on!" I shout just as Rilee ducks from view. I can't imagine how Grace will react, but that inevitable engagement party is going to be awful.

So, new plan. Blow off Boothe to help Rilee out. I sigh as I envision Boothe's disappointed face that's sure to be as pathetic as a sad puppy. I'll explain it to him tomorrow. He'll understand. Boothe is a good guy and he knows what brothers are like, having a few of his own.

I turn a corner and slowly approach the place where I would normally meet Katniss and Prim. I'm not surprised to find the spot empty. It's been empty every day since last Tuesday. I miss them. I miss her. Especially after having her, kind of. I was in a better place than Rilee was with Kinnian. I messed it up and now I miss her.

Absently, I skim my fingertips across the cool cinder block wall what Katniss always leans against. The rough and cold texture doesn't compare at all to her warm skin, but it abstractly reminds me of the feel of the chapped skin on her lips as they were pressed against mine. No matter how many times I relive that moment, I still struggle to believe it happened. How many fantasies have I had about kissing Katniss? Plenty. How many include the situation I'm in now? None. If they did they would no longer be fantasies.

I'm not the first guy to kiss a girl at the wrong moment. Look at Rilee for God's sake. He's trying to date a girl who just got out of a long-term relationship. I doubt I'm the first guy to get pushed as well. However, with other girls I would merely have to issue a simple apology and promise to take things slower, she would accept it, and then we could move on. With Katniss, everything is more complicated. She's so dense I don't think she understands that I have feelings for her. I have to think about our difference in status and how a relationship might be perceived. I have to worry about how her sister feels and how her mother will react. Not to mention—

"Peeta Mellark?"

_And when did I become so goddamn popular? _

"What?" I bark, snapping my head toward the unfamiliar voice. I jolt upright, holding back a gasp when I see the tall, slender person standing beside me. His black hair hangs over his eyes, casting a shadow across his angular face. He's a few inches taller than me, but he's also a couple years older.

Gale Hawthorne.

I glance up and down, searching for the flash of a hunting knife. He wouldn't bring that stuff near the school though, would he?

Suddenly, he juts his hand out into the open air between us. "Gale Hawthorne," he says curtly. We've never met in such an official capacity. I've sold him bread or traded for a squirrel or whatnot, but we never exchange pleasantries, and we never shake hands. My tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth as I tentatively take his hand in a firm, but unthreatening grip.

We let go promptly; neither one of us saying anything. I'm not afraid of Gale, not really. I'm aware that he has weapons, knowledge of fighting techniques, and is strong enough to beat me up if he were struck with the desire to do so. If it came to that I think I could get a couple shots in. I know how to defend myself after having two older brothers. However, the biggest threat that Hawthorne poses to me has nothing to do with the physical. He's been friends with Katniss for several years, whereas I have only become friends with her for a few weeks. He spends time with her and has access to her attention and her world. Yes, the greatest threat Gale poses is if he had the inclination to make Katniss his, he could, quite easily; well, a lot easier than I have it. "What do you want?" I gulp.

Gale casually puts his hands into the pockets of his dark brown corduroy pants. There's a patch over one of the knees. "I thought we should talk."

"About?" I hedge.

"No sense playing dumb, Mellark," he says, slightly annoyed.

_Oh, I can play dumb. I can play dumb all day long._ "I don't know what you're talking about, Hawthorne."

"I know what you did. You kissed her," Gale chokes out. He clears his throat, but keeps his dark eyes steady.

I fight the urge to rush into the plethora of rehearsed apologies I have memorized. I understand that Gale and Katniss are friends and he's upset. After hearing all those nasty rumors about how I'm trying to seduce Katniss or that Katniss is trying to seduce me, Hawthorne thinks I'm worth less than dirt. It doesn't matter that Katniss defended me either. I'm sure once Hawthorne learned I'd gone and kissed her, my credibility was completely shot. However, Katniss was clear when she said she and Gale weren't a couple. He's not her boyfriend. I don't owe him an explanation. Besides, he won't believe anything I say. "You know, it's bad form to kiss and tell, so I'm just going to—"

"Who the hell do you think you are?" Gale interrupts, his voice calm, but serious. I attempt to walk away from him, but he gracefully cuts in front of me without taking his hands from his pockets. "Whatever plan you had in mind, it's done."

_A plan?_ He's got me there. I've had several plans. None of which include what the rumors have insinuated and none that worked. I should tell him about the umbrella and how well that went over. "I've got cakes that need to be frosted."

A wicked smirk crosses Gale's face as he folds his thin, but obviously muscled arms over his chest. "And I've got wild animals to hunt and kill, so we're both missing out." Well, if that's not a jab at my masculinity, I don't know what is. Gale steps closer, taking advantage of the few inches of height he has on me. "If you're screwing with her—"

"I'm not," I interject abruptly. I'm tired of defending myself. I shouldn't have to. Does my reputation for the past 16 years mean nothing? And even though Hawthorne doesn't know me that well, doesn't he give Katniss any credit? She spoke well of me and Hawthorne called her naïve. Some best friend. "And don't you start accusing me of something you have no proof of." I unconsciously roll up onto the balls of my feet, but my heavy bag, which I'd forgotten, throws my weight off, tilting me forward too far. I quickly shift my weight backwards to stop myself from falling right into him.

Gale looks off down an empty corridor, laughing humorlessly to himself. "There's always some truth to the talk."

"So there's truth to the gossip I hear about _you_ and Katniss?" I blurt out. Gale's eyes immediately snap back to mine with renewed focus. I brace myself for his fist to come flying, but nothing happens, so I bravely continue. "Because Katniss told me different and I believe her." I'd much rather believe her than the rumors, as the truth gives me a chance to be with Katniss whereas the rumor that labels Katniss with Hawthorne as a couple, does not.

Gale's eyes remain tightly focused on me, keeping his body absolutely still. I have a slight desire to squirm away, but more than anything I'd like to be out of arm swinging length. "What did she say?" he asks in the lowest register of his voice—as if he were trying to keep the volume down so no one else could hear. With all his concentration and steady silence, I expect his voice to be angry. Instead, it's oddly quiet and possibly…vulnerable?

I open my mouth to elaborate, but then close it with a snap. There isn't anything for me to elaborate on. The rumor is that Katniss and Gale are more than hunting partners and Katniss said that wasn't true. End of story. If he's fishing for information about how Katniss feels about him, no way am I taking the bait. I work hard enough figuring out how Katniss feels about _me_. "It doesn't matter. The point is, if she told me the truth about you, then it stands to reason that she'd tell you the truth about me."

Surprisingly, this logic placates him, and he takes a step back. "Fair enough," he concedes. "But any gossip there may have been about me isn't nearly as damaging as the gossip concerning you. Do you understand what your presence in her life is doing to her?"

_Do I understand?_ I have a notebook full of apologetic ramblings that express how much I understand how it's affecting her. I'll admit I was shortsighted in how _drastically_ it would affect her, but I'm willing to take responsibility and fix it, if only Katniss would talk to me again.

At the same time, there are parts of my relationship with Katniss that I didn't anticipate that are so incredibly good. That afternoon we spent at my house where she called my mother a witch. The imaginary bow and arrow lesson. The jokes that she made and the smiles I gave her. Things that people don't see and Hawthorne doesn't think are possible. "Like making her laugh? Being someone she can talk to? Are those such terrible things?" I inquire bitingly.

"She doesn't need you for that," Gale snaps. His statement is cruel, but I don't shrink back. I find it hard to imagine Hawthorne with his machismo and tough guy persona could ever lighten up enough to make Katniss laugh. "And Prim may be smitten with you, but I'm not."

"Well, thank God for that!" I reply affirmably. Hawthorne rolls his eyes. I rub my hands over my face. After talking with Boothe, Rilee, and now Hawthorne I'm going to be late for the shift that I wasn't even scheduled for. My Tuesdays have officially gone to hell. "Look, this is all unnecessary. Katniss made herself very clear," I assure him.

"So you won't go after her anymore?" he asks straight out.

"I was never _going after_ her," I insist. Not in the way he is insinuating. My intentions were…are completely honorable. And I'm not going to say that I'll stop being her friend; not that it matters because Katniss isn't speaking to me. "I care about her. I'm sure you do, too, or you wouldn't be standing here right now." _Giving me a hard time_, I refrain from adding.

Gale sucks air through his teeth, casting his glance toward the wall. Does this spot have the same significance to him that it does to me?

The clock above us ticks loudly amongst the silence. If he has nothing left to say, then I should really get going. As it is, I'm going to have to book it over to the bakery if I'm going to get there in time for the rush.

"Has she…," he begins tentatively. He rubs his hand over the scruff on his cheek. I've never tried to grow a beard. Rilee attempted it once, but it only grew in part way, and Mom made him shave it off. "Has she talked to you? At all?" Gale finishes lamely.

I come close to laughing in his face. _Talk to me? _For how well he thinks he knows the situation, he's not very aware of what's going on. I'd be happy for a look in my direction. "No," I answer honestly. "We don't usually talk during the week. I doubt a barrage of conversation is headed my way."

Gale releases a shallow sigh. His hands fall back into his pockets. He's missing all the confidence he had at the beginning of the conversation. It makes me nervous. I could care less about Hawthorne, but Katniss hasn't been in school for the past two days. If she's not well I want to know.

"Is she okay?" I ask.

Gale's eyebrows knit together, giving it serious thought before answering the question. He recently saw Katniss on Sunday. That's when they go hunting. This should be an easy answer. "She—"

"Gale?" Hawthorne is interrupted by a small voice. We both look over and standing in the shadow of a row of lockers twice his size is a skinny, dark haired little boy in desperate need of a haircut. His backpack is miniature sized, covered in patches, and the straps are two different colors. "Can we go home?" the boy whines, obviously tired.

"I told you and Rory to wait for me," Gale says in a low voice, offering no explanation to me. I assume this must be one of his brothers. "Where is he?"

"I don't know," the boy moans defensively. "He said he was going to the bathroom and never came back."

"Oh hell," Gale says under his breath, his shoulders sagging. He walks up to the boy and gingerly plucks the backpack off him, carrying it easily. "Okay, we're going," he announces.

"But what about Rory?"

"He knows how to get home," Gale says gruffly as he pushes the heavy exit door open for his little brother to go through. He leaves without a goodbye or even a fleeting look, as if we weren't having a conversation whatsoever.

I stand there for a few seconds, half expecting Hawthorne to burst back in and give me the pummeling he forgot about, but the hallway remains quiet. My body relaxes as my natural fight or flight response finally stops releasing adrenaline into my bloodstream. I feel exhausted and I still have to go into work. I switch my bag from one shoulder to the other, giving my now aching right shoulder a break, and start making my way toward the bakery.

There's a wide array of thoughts that I could reflect on while walking the path from school to the square that I could follow with my eyes closed. Boothe and his honest eagerness, Rilee and his dishonest scheming, and finally Gale and our confusing conversation. More than anything, I keep replaying Hawthorne's interaction with his younger brother in my mind. Since my brothers and I are so close in age we never took care of each other. I mean, when I was a baby, Miche was only four or five years old, so he couldn't be expected to care for me. We grew up like a brood of friends, only doing favors for one another when it suited us. I gather that Gale didn't want to talk to me in front of his siblings. Perhaps he couldn't perform the intimidating, jealous best friend role with his brothers along. One minute he's warning me to stay away from Katniss, the next he's comforting his brother. When I was that kid's age I got Indian burns from my brothers and then ran to my dad for comfort. I guess that kid only has Gale to run to.

Speaking of dads, mine is standing behind the counter when I come through the front door of the bakery. There are three or four customers waiting in line. Dad attends to them graciously. He scratches a purchase into the ledger just as I drop my bag that's half the weight of a bag of flour at his feet.

"Peeta! How was school?" my dad asks in a good mood that I can't stomach at the moment.

"Endless," I say with a sigh.

"Isn't next week the last week of school? The end is in sight."

I roll my eyes. He's been out of school for too long and doesn't remember that the last week of school feels three times as long as any other week.

"I assume you're here to tell me where your brother is," he states while simultaneously wrapping up a fresh loaf of bread for an impatient customer.

"He's not coming. Something came up. I told him I'd cover for him."

"That was nice of you," he replies with a raised eyebrow and great deal of speculation in his voice.

"Yeah, well. Whatever," I mumble. _Don't ask me to tell you the reason why. Don't ask. Don't ask. _

Thankfully he doesn't get into it due to the customers filling up the shop. "It's better you're here anyway. Miche is working on the wedding cake for this Friday. Could you give him a hand?"

"Sure," I reply, hastily retreating to the back room. Inside, Miche is hidden behind a triple-decker cake—the likes of which we see only once or twice a year. This one is for Rooba, the butcher, who's getting married later in life than most, but wanted a grand cake like a blushing eighteen year old bride. We were surprised when she approached us, but gladly accepted her offer. She's paying us mostly in meat. If you ask me, we're getting the far better end of the deal.

"Miche?" I call out.

My oldest brother pops out from behind the cake with a smattering of white frosting across his apron. "Hey. What are you doing here?"

"I'm filling in for Rilee," I say as I grab an apron for myself.

"Again?" he chuckles.

"Don't ask," I tell him seriously. He definitely does not want to know the reason why. Grace is going to give him such hell.

We discuss the plan for the cake design for a while. It's a traditional flower theme, like most wedding cakes. Rooba requested white and pink roses—a rather girly and unexpected request from the robust woman. But what else would you put on a wedding cake? Animal carcasses wouldn't be very romantic.

Miche and I get into a rhythm on the bottom tier of the cake. Using a pastry bag, he squeezes out a pink border and generic pink roses with frosting. Then I go in after him with a brush painting in details of leaves, vines, and subtle changes in the colors of the blooms. I don't mind this work. Sometimes it's tedious and it gets repetitive for certain, but it's one of the few things I can do that no one else can. Miche doesn't have the hand for it and Rilee isn't patient enough. It can even be fun to get lost in it, painting the scenes and colors as realistically as possible. Time passes. Miche and I stand up to stretch our backs, as we've been leaning over, and magically the bottom tier is an illustration of a garden of summer roses. I swear you can't tell the difference between the sugar roses and the real thing, aside from the scent.

Miche and I admire our work when Dad walks in through the swinging door. His eyes immediately go to the cake, the very expensive cake.

"What do you think?" Miche asks.

Dad carefully looks over the work we've done so far, acting as though he's going to give us a firm critique, but before he looks at us, he's already smiling proudly. "Nicely done," he commends us both. Miche holds out his hand in a fist; I punch it lightly with my own. Okay, so it's not a fallen deer, but we Mellarks take great pride in our creations. "Peeta, there's a customer out there who's looking for you," Dad adds while continuing to examine the details I painted.

"Me?"

"Why don't you go up front? I'll take care of things back here for a bit." He picks up a paintbrush and adds a touch of white to one of the flowers. I disagree on the additional highlighting. I'll go back and fix it later. For now, I do as I'm told and head out to the front. The room is barren, the rush having gone through, save for a little blonde girl who's staring at the cakes in the display like she's looking at a famous piece of art.

"Prim?" I sputter. "What are you doing here?"

Prim whips her body around, biting her lip as a blush rises on her cheeks. "Well, I—"

"Are you alone?" I interrupt, kind of on accident. I've never seen Prim without Katniss, except that time I sought out Prim to give her cookies. But after several scans of the small room Katniss fails to materialize.

"Yes," Prim answers shyly.

After the disappointment that Katniss isn't here passes, I'm anxious for a different reason. Isn't Prim too young to walk around town on her own? "You shouldn't be walking by yourself."

She huffs indignantly, crossing her skinny arms over her middle in an attempt to be intimidating. Unfortunately, she has all the intimidation power of a fluffy bunny rabbit. "Peeta, I'm twelve, not five," Prim asserts.

"Okay, okay. You're right," I concede. I suppose I was doing far worse things at twelve years old. And just think about the responsibilities Katniss had at Prim's age. I must see Prim as younger than she is, although I should think twice about it. She's awfully good at making things happen when she wants to. "What can I get for you?" I ask, putting on the smile I reserve for customers.

"Can you come to my house?" she blurts out with zero pretense.

"Uh…"

Prim scurries right up to the counter and grips the edge. I'm distracted by the black rings of dust buried under her nails. How does it get there? She doesn't spend her time in the coal mines. "It's Katniss."

My mind instantly goes to a thousand dark places. Katniss hasn't been to school in two days. Did she have an accident in the woods? An attack from an animal? An illness? People from the Seam always have the worst coughs. "Did something happen? Is she sick?"

"No…maybe," she stumbles. "I don't know." She stares at the counter to avoid my concerned eye. This gives some relief, ironically enough. If Katniss were in serious trouble, Prim wouldn't look like she's afraid of getting in trouble by telling me.

I lean down and rest my elbows on the counter so I'm at eye level with her. "You're going to have to give me a better reason than that."

Prim's eyes shift to the glass display case next to the counter, then back to her hands, and finally to me. "She's mad," she explains vaguely.

I almost say, "what about?" but stop myself before the words slip out. In my concern I had a momentary memory lapse. I know what Katniss is mad about. I've got a bruise on my backside that serves as a reminder. "Prim—"

"Last week she was distracted, but since Sunday she's barely talked at all."

I straighten up and lean on my palms, entertaining the notion for a brief moment. I walk into their house. Katniss sees me. Then she introduces me to her right hook. Or maybe a slap…nah…Katniss is a right hook kind of girl. "Prim, I am the last person Katniss wants to see." And she puts in a lot of effort to make sure she doesn't see me.

"That's not true. Katniss likes you," she says sweetly.

Out of everyone I've talked to today, I desperately want to believe that Prim's being truthful, but there's a lot of evidence to the contrary. People don't act like that around people they like. "Did she say that?" I ask skeptically.

Prim scratches her cheek and opens and closes her mouth twice before articulating a response. "She's never said that she hates you."

Wow. Just when I thought my expectations couldn't get any lower. "I'm sorry, but trust me. She doesn't want to see me."

The conversation stalls. Prim takes a somber little walk away from the counter. She gazes at the cakes in the display case next to the counter, even touching the cool glass. My mom curses out the children who press their fingers and noses to the glass the second their parents leave the bakery. _Can't parents control their children these days? Don't they see their little brats leaving fingerprints all over my glass?_ Sure, cleaning the glass every day is monotonous, but I'd never tell a kid to stop. Kids like Prim come in here and see the frosted cakes and cookies with sprinkles knowing they can never afford them. Touching the glass is as close as they can get.

"You didn't come to my party," Prim says quietly, her disappointment veiled, but not completely hidden.

And nothing, _nothing_, could make me feel like a worse human being. I wanted to go to Prim's party. I spent all day Sunday pacing back and forth in my room weighing my options. At one point I walked all the way to the edge of town before I abruptly turned around and half-sprinted back home.

I walk around the counter as fast as possible, grasping at the apologies that I should have written for her. "I'm really, really sorry, Prim. I didn't mean to disappoint you." I didn't mean to, but it happened anyway. After all the wingman stuff she's done to make sure I could spend time with Katniss, I owed this to her. She's the only person that has been a good friend to me in weeks and I can't even show up for her goddamn birthday party because I selfishly kissed her sister and couldn't face her again.

I try to balance it all out; my friends, my family, and the people I'm trying to be a good friend to. But every time I please one person I disappoint someone else. And now I have to look at this little girl stare at a cake that I didn't make for her.

"Let me make it up to you," I say with no small amount of begging in my voice. I dart back around the counter and grab a paper bag. "We made sugar cookies. They're really good." Take it out of my allowance for the rest of the year. I don't care.

Prim drops her hand to her side and stares me down with the kind of authority that comes with turning a year older. "I don't want cookies. I want you to talk to Katniss. This could be my present," she suggests.

I expel a large amount of air and look down into the empty paper bag in my hand. No amount of cookies or cakes is going to make this up to her. I should have seen this coming. She is _the_ wingman after all. "Prim…," I fade out, since I have no argument to follow up with.

"So you'll come?"

I cringe remembering she asked me that same question a week ago. Do I have an alternative? I could refuse and protect myself from Katniss' right hook, consequently hurting Prim for a second time. Or I could be brave and make Prim happy.

Prim looks up at me with eyes that hold all the innocence District 12 still has to offer and I recognize there isn't a choice here. It's not solely about making something up to Prim. She's manipulative, but only to benefit other people, never to hurt them. And for the past week she's seen Katniss hurting, so as a good sister, she needs to fix it.

"Let me go tell my dad and brother."

It takes little convincing to persuade Dad to let me leave early, seeing as I wasn't supposed to be at the bakery in the first place. Lucky thing Mom wasn't in today. The walk to the Seam is much too short. It doesn't help that Prim practically skips the entire way. I have to keep focusing on her. I'm doing this for her. If I get yelled at, it's for her. If I get pummeled, it's for her. Her mother is a healer, right?

Prim waves at Lady as she hurries through the gate and up to the front door. I take my time shutting the chain link gate behind me and shuffling up the path. Lady tilts her head like she recognizes me. I make eye contact with her and her rectangular-shaped pupils. I don't know how intuitive goats are, but something about the way Lady stares me down screams that she_ knows_ I'm the one who hurt her owner and her owner's sister. I look away and search for Prim, thankful the goat is tied to the fence.

I find Prim hanging up her jacket on a line of hooks next to the door. My sights automatically search the room for Katniss and this time I'm not disappointed. She sits at her worn kitchen table, her head resting in her hand, staring out the window, with her History book open in front of her of all things. She appears bored, but otherwise perfectly well. It's the exact image I have blatantly stared at during every single History class this semester. Only the setting is different. My insides twist up in tight knots, and not in a good way. I'm responsible for messing things up, but seeing her reminds me of how much I missed her in the past week. Her mere absence makes me ache. Now that I know what it's like to kiss her, it's only going to make me miss what I don't have.

"Katniss?" Prim calls out softly. "Someone is here to see you."

Katniss twists her head around. A sleepy daze covers her features. It takes more than a second for her to recognize me standing in her doorway. I watch as her eyes widen, her mouth drifts open, and her drowsiness sharpens into unfiltered shock. "What are you doing here?" she utters with a gulp.

"I brought him," Prim says proudly.

"You—" Katniss stops herself from speaking further, apparently stunned at the forward actions of her sister. Katniss jumps up from her seat, crossing the room in a few steps. "You should leave," she instructs me.

I glance down at Prim, who for all her pushiness and newfound confidence looks terrified by her sister's reaction. She must think she really screwed up. I know the feeling. I stand up straight and look Katniss in the eye because Katniss does not want a spineless guy who can't even look at her directly. "I can't," I reply.

"Why?" she asks, settling her body into a tough, somewhat combative stance.

"I made a promise to Prim to talk to you. Right now. It's her birthday present." I smile down at Prim. A tiny spark reignites the light in her eyes I've come to count on.

"Why don't you two take a walk in the Meadow?" Prim suggests with new, happy enthusiasm.

Katniss and I both turn toward her and say, "No!" in perfect unison. Feeling taken aback by our inexplicable showing of consistency in front of Prim, Katniss and I decide this is a good time to take careful observation of the floor. That way no one has to look at each other.

From the corner of my eye, I see Prim run her hand up and down her arm, unsure of what just happened. "You could always go to the Hob," Prim proposes with an awkward laugh.

I'm about to laugh along with the absurdity of that suggestion when Katniss chirps up and says something I never would have expected.

"Fine."

Prim giggles, but when Katniss doesn't her face turns adorably serious. "I was only kidding," she cries.

"I'm not," Katniss states plainly. "Let's go." She brushes past me and through the door, walking confidently on her way to God knows where. I stare at Prim with my mouth gaping open, silently begging for some coaching.

_Is she seriously going to the Hob? _

_The black market? _

_Come on, wingman! _

_What am I supposed to do here?_

For the first time, Prim is utterly useless. She shrugs her shoulders at me, either in apology or sympathy. Then she slowly inches the door closed, forcing me out onto the front stoop. _Well, thanks a lot!_ I hold off from shouting through the door. Talking with an angry Katniss is one thing; it's something else entirely to send me to the black market with criminals!

Certain I would find the door locked if I tried, I turn around and look for Katniss. She's already taken off down the road and I have to run to catch up with her. I didn't bring my bag with me because it was full of books. All I have is a couple coins on me. "Uh, I didn't bring anything to trade," I mention, recalling the last discussion we had about the Hob. Katniss said she would take me there if I had something the shopkeepers wanted.

Katniss doesn't respond. She marches down the road at a swift pace. I'm too distracted by her coldness to observe the sights properly or pay attention to where we're headed. From what I can see, everything from the houses to the people seems to getting more and more gray.

I make a second attempt at conversation. "I apologized to Prim about the party and the cake." Katniss slows down minutely, but refuses to look at me. "I didn't think I'd be welcome," I say lowly. Her eyes flicker to mine, I think. It's very hard to tell. It's like the sun doesn't shine as brightly in this part of the district. There must a cloud of coal dust it has to filter through.

Way back when, I was intrigued by going to the Hob with Katniss. It has a seedy and dangerous reputation. Not many town kids are brave enough to head out there on their own. I thought it would be different going with Katniss. Being one of the few hunters in Twelve, her name means something there, and being with her would bring me some clout I wouldn't have otherwise. Instead, Katniss isn't speaking to me and I have a feeling she's going to ditch me. "Are you going to talk or do I have to inflict some kind of torture?" I snap.

Katniss' shoulders tighten up and her pace speeds up half a step. What a shock. She doesn't like being snapped at. Katniss is tough, but she's still a girl. Girls don't appreciate it when guys snap at them, or kiss them without asking. This is hopeless. Katniss is more than ready to be done with our whole relationship.

I made a promise to Prim, however. I can't give up yet.

I observe my surroundings for a few paces. We're out of the residential part of the Seam, getting closer to the mines. I recognize it from the tours we used to take when we were kids. "Where is this Hob place?" I sigh.

Amazingly, she replies to the small talk. "Right up ahead." She gestures vaguely with a wave of her hand.

I search around for a building, not exactly knowing what to look for. When I hear the word "market" I think of the square surrounded by businesses, including the bakery. Then when the word "black" is added to it I imagine the square deep underground with a secret password and a burly bodyguard at the entrance. All that's ahead is a partially dilapidated warehouse with dark soot ground into every surface and crack. "That's it?"

"Were you expecting something grander?" Katniss questions sardonically.

Well, I didn't think the word "black" was being used in literal terms. "I was expecting something more hidden, like I'd have to walk through a secret mine shaft to find it," I confess.

Katniss laughs, more to herself than at my misconception. I'll take laugher for any reason at the moment. "Not much need to hide when the Peacekeepers are some of the Hob's best customers."

"Really?" Can't say I've given much thought about where the Peacekeepers spend their money. Cray comes in occasionally, but I rarely see the redheaded one in the bakery. I suppose it makes sense they'd buy things from the Hob. Their money will go much farther than it would in town and they don't have to worry about getting bad deal since they're the law in Twelve. My mother would be so peeved to know the Peacekeepers are supporting the criminals in the Seam.

Katniss leads us on through the large pair of open doors. I step in with some trepidation, still thinking there's going to be dark cloaked figures peddling knives at every corner. It is darker inside, but there's enough light filtering through the dirty windows high above us to see without candles or torches. There's a long, open corridor extending from one end of the building to the other with dividers that separate stalls on either side. There are more vendors than customers at the moment. Perhaps there will be more when work at the mines ends.

Katniss offers no tour, but it's easy to get a feel for the place. The vendors' facilities are shabby and basic, but have what they need for business. I see perhaps a quarter of the amenities one can find for sale in town. Coffee, eggs, oil, yarn, fabric, and of course, buns and bread. I can't help feeling a slight bit of pride comparing the quality of the vendor's bread to what we make at the bakery. Our facilities are drastically different, obviously. There's a one-armed woman selling variously colored bottles filled with clear liquid. She must be the one with the liquor. Everything is a touch coarser or grayer or less colorful than I'm used to, but it's not scary. Nevertheless, I keep an eye on how close people get to me, wary of pickpockets.

I look for expressions of astonishment at being seen with Katniss. People in town must be much more sensitive, because these people don't seem to care. I'm liking the Seam more and more. The first person to even give me a second glance is a gaunt old woman standing over a kettle of something. "Good afternoon, young man." She smiles widely at me. "Hungry?"

The air around her stall smells appetizing. It's reaching that time between the end of school and dinner when I'm in desperate need of a snack. At home, it's usually toast. "It smells good," I compliment. Her smile stretches further. "What is it?"

"Soup made from the best herbs, vegetables, and meats District Twelve has to offer."

While "the best of District 12", isn't saying much, I get what she means. I turn to Katniss, who is leaning over the woman's counter with friendly familiarity. "Have you had it before?" I ask.

"Of course she has!" the woman answers for Katniss. "Her kills frequently provide the meat for my recipes."

"Well, in that case. Why not?" I reach into my pocket, grasp one of the coins that is still there, and place it on the counter. She hums to herself as she ladles a bowl of steaming soup and sets it front of me. I hurriedly carry my soup to a rickety picnic table near the stall without spilling or burning my fingers on the sides. Katniss silently sits across from me as I eat the first few spoonfuls. It's not bad. Under-salted with more cabbage than meat, but as good as anything my mother can make. I look up from the bowl to find Katniss staring at me with a look I can only describe as incredulous. I wipe at my mouth with the back of my hand, thinking I must have something on my face. "What?"

"Nothing." She shakes her head. "It's surreal."

"Yeah, well, this whole day has been surreal," I comment, though Katniss has no way of knowing what I mean. I sip a few more spoonfuls of broth, unconsciously putting off the conversation we need to have. I need to apologize. I need to know why she's hasn't been in school. I need to know if we have any chance at still being friends. Before I delve in to any of that, I need to keep my promise to Prim. "Prim is worried about you. Should she be?"

Katniss puts her elbows up on the table and leans onto the palm of her right hand. It may be the grungy building, but I notice there's a more defined darkness under her eyes—evidence of sleepless nights. "No," she replies.

I set down the spoon in the mostly empty bowl and push it aside. I lean forward onto my own elbows, mimicking her pose. "You know, Prim has good instincts about people." She knows what I've been trying to do for weeks.

"Prim sees what she wants to see," Katniss says knowingly.

"I think she knows her sister pretty well," I disagree. Prim has to be right. If I can see how tired Katniss is, how her shoulders droop with the weight of her stress, then her sister can. "She says you've been distracted. She also walked all the way to town and back, by herself, without you noticing."

Katniss refuses to acknowledge my statement or its accuracy. She picks up her braid from her shoulder and plays with the end of it distractedly. I can see now that Katniss' stubbornness is going to prevent us from ever moving forward. I'm the one who's going to have to say it. I lean in closer. "Is it because of what happened last week?" I whisper.

She stops fiddling with her length of hair. Her eyes move to mine. I hold my breath and focus all my energy on not looking away.

"No," she repeats. Then she goes back to twirling her hair.

It's not because I kissed her?But that has to be it. She shoved me to the ground and ran away. Prim said Katniss was upset last week, but then, she also mentioned something else. "Prim said you haven't talked much since Sunday," I think out loud. "Did something happen on Sunday?"

Katniss freezes, her eyes stuck on her hands. I hit something. Damn it. Why did I skip out on that party? "Katniss?" I press. Her fingers leave her braid. She grazes them over her lips, like she's physically holding her words back. Perhaps she needs more assurance. "If something did happen, I would never tell anyone. I've never said a word about—"

"Galekissedme," she exclaims. Her hand instantly goes back to cover her mouth.

Katniss could have said anything—that she is a natural blonde or that she's secretly in love with Rilee or that she's the real reason Gusset and Kinnian broke up—and I would have been less shocked. And then, it gets worse, because it all starts to make sense. Hawthorne coming to talk to me after school wasn't just a guy staking his territory. He reached out to me because Katniss isn't speaking to him either. "Oh. Wow," I utter, having nothing better to say. Hawthorne is the reason she hasn't been at school. He kissed her and freaked her out. I kissed her, but I'm the guy who flirts with her once a week. Gale is her best friend. If she was surprised by my kiss then she was definitely thrown by his. "Do you want me to kick his ass for you?" I suggest, laughing nervously. Seems like the stand up thing to do. Also, the very same thing Gale must have wanted to do to me.

"Shut up. It's not funny," she bites back. Her face morphs into a fierce glare. Honestly, I'm glad to see it. It's the most she's been like herself in a week.

"You're right. It's _not_ funny," I agree. Who does he think he is kissing _my_ girl? Again, the exact same thought Gale probably had when he learned I'd kissed Katniss. I shudder with the amount of things we're beginning to have in common. "What's the story?"

Katniss sets her hands flat on the table, taunting me with the unrelenting urge to reach out and take one into mine. Apparently, that urge is never going to go away. I push it aside as best I can and focus on the story.

"He and I were hunting before Prim's party. We came on a group of turkeys, but I wasn't paying attention and made too much noise. I didn't see them until they were taking off."

I try to imagine the scene as she describes it. I wouldn't know a turkey until I stepped on it. It seems like something that would happen more often than not. "Sounds like a simple mistake," I muse.

"It was a stupid mistake," she corrects. "On top of that, our haul wasn't looking good and I wasn't going to have enough to get the present I wanted for Prim."

"What did you want to get her?"

The question catches her off guard. "Oh, um, fabric for a new dress." She drums her fingers against the table a few times, casting her eyes downward. I regret asking the question. I should have realized Katniss would be sensitive to the things she fails to provide her sister. Katniss moves on without bringing more attention to it. "Anyway, I expected Gale to be angry with me for being sloppy, but he wasn't."

"That was nice of him." And I presume it's also out of character.

"Then he…he asked me if you were coming to the party. Prim mentioned it."

"I assume you said no."

Katniss nods. "He seemed…upset. Then he started asking me questions about why you weren't coming when Prim thought you were. I didn't want to answer, but he would let it go, and I was mad about the turkeys and the gift, and I just said it."

I know she'll never say it to me, seeing as she only said it in the first place because she was riled up. So I fill in the blank for her. "That we kissed."

Katniss does nothing to acknowledge it other than to sit quietly. "He looked so…," she drifts off.

"Angry?" I guess.

"Disappointed," she says. "He believed all those rumors, so of course he'd be disappointed that I'd let something like that happen."

I cover my mouth with my hand and take a deep breath. Oh, Katniss. I hate to call her naïve, but on this point she is. Disappointed? Sure. He's disappointed that I did it first. He's disappointed she might not want him.

"We didn't talk much while we organized the haul and then he…he just…" This stuttering thing would be adorable, if only she weren't talking about kissing another guy.

"And then he kissed you," I say.

Once again, she's silent.

We're both startled when someone roughly sits down at an adjacent table with a bowl of soup. He's a much older man, dressed in flannel and black denim trousers, with layers of dust caught in every wrinkle of his knuckles. I look down at my own hands. I spend more time than the average guy keeping my nails and hands clean because I wash my hands before and after I bake, but the difference between this man and me is staggering. Katniss is somewhere in the middle. There's no coal dust in between her fingers, but her nails are broken and scarred from years of hunting.

I clear my throat. It's uncomfortable to have someone sitting next to us, but I doubt the guy is eavesdropping. "What happened after that?"

"We picked up the rest of our things, traded away what we could here at the Hob, and went home for Prim's party."

I'm perturbed by the anticlimactic ending. Why didn't Gale get shoved for kissing her? "He didn't say anything?"

"He complained that the price of oil had gone up," she says sadly.

"Geez," I sigh. Guilt sweeps over me for ever having felt bad for myself this past week. Katniss was having the worst week of her life. First there are nasty rumors said about her, then she gets kissed unexpectedly, then she gets kissed unexpectedly _again_, then she has to sit through her sister's birthday party with him there. That must have been incredibly uncomfortable. And all the while she's had no one to talk to because her only friends are the ones creating the problems in the first place. I pick up her hand in a gesture of friendship and nothing more. My gut tells me this. She tenses, but I don't let go. "Katniss, I'm so, so sorry," I say honestly. "I shouldn't have kissed you. Not without your permission. No one should do anything without your permission. That includes Hawthorne."

Katniss looks over at the man next to us, who having finished his soup, stands up and carries his bowl back to the counter. He walks down the corridor, coal dust shakes from his clothing with every step. While I'm momentarily distracted, Katniss pulls her hand away from mine and tucks it under that table.

I'm not ignorant of the fact that Gale and I kissed Katniss under similar circumstances. We kissed her during moments of stress, when we thought we were losing her. One difference is that she didn't react violently at the end of her kiss with Gale. Another is that she didn't disappear completely from my life and she is talking to me. Now, anyway. "Can I ask you something?" I don't give her a chance to say no. "Did you want Gale to kiss you?"

"He shouldn't have."

_What does that mean?_ "So you _didn't_ want him to kiss you?"

"Gale knows better."

_And what is _that_ supposed to mean?_ "Why? Because he's older? He's still a guy," I argue. I have to give him credit that he didn't do it sooner. I only lasted six weeks.

"Because he knows what I think about it," she answers enigmatically.

"I don't understand," I finally admit.

With nothing else on the table for her to fiddle with, she reaches for the spoon in my soup bowl and tilts it sideways so the leftover broth pours back into the bowl. She does this four times before she drops it and it _clanks_ back into the ceramic bowl.

"I'm not going to have a boyfriend. I'm not going to get married," she says.

So we're back to this? Her mother is going to have to realize how beautiful Katniss is. Guys are going to want to date her. "Well, your mom might be strict now, but when you get older—"

"My mom?" she interrupts, sounding absolutely baffled.

"Yeah," I draw out. "You said you don't date. I assumed your mother had rules about dating."

Katniss rolls her eyes and leans as far back as she can without tipping off the bench. "My mother doesn't care what I do."

"Oh. So, why not date?"

She holds her hands up in the air. "Look around," she orders.

I look to the left, then the right. There's more people walking around, but nothing else has changed.

"This isn't an easy life. My family barely gets by, most families barely get by. I already have two mouths to feed besides my own. I don't need more to take care of."

My head slowly puts her puzzling logic together. She doesn't date. Hard life. Mouths to feed. "You don't want kids?" I conclude.

"I don't want to bring more people into this world where they're going to have to struggle and suffer," she explains smoothly, like it's a well-rehearsed speech.

"But that's not the same thing as dating or having a boyfriend."

"One thing would lead to the other."

Well…in theory, yeah. But, come on, we're sixteen years old.

"And why would I lead someone on like that?" she continues. "There's no future with me. That's the way I want it."

I lean my chin into me palm to give my confused head a rest. I thought _I_ fantasized about the future too much. Katniss has already decided she doesn't want to get married or have kids. It seems like a very uninformed decision to me. How can she be so sure she doesn't want something she's never had? And she's skipping over so much relationship stuff that isn't related to getting married and having kids. "But what about you? What about your needs?"

"I don't need someone to take care of me," she scoffs.

"I know you don't need someone to feed you or clothe you," I say in a harsh tone that I hope reminds her that I'm well aware of that. "What about _you_? What about someone to make you laugh or someone to hold you when you cry? What about someone to kiss you? What about someone to…" To do what I already do. "To love you?"

"Love is a weakness."

"That's not true!" I shout. A couple patrons and vendors look over. I lower my voice. "Love makes people do good things. It doesn't make us weak."

"It does when it's ripped from you. And here, it happens all the time."

"So what are you going to do about Gale?" I toss at her. "I assume that's why you haven't been in school. You didn't want to see him."

"He knows all this. It won't come as a shock to him."

"And what about me? You wanted to shock me?"

"I want to get through to you!" She slams her fist on the table causing the soup bowl and the spoon to rattle. That's why she agreed to come here. She wanted to show me the lowest part of the Seam so I could see what her life is really like. Did she think I'd be disgusted? Did she think it would make stop caring about her? "There's nothing here for you."

"I don't believe that," I spit at her. The moments we had, even though they were brief, they were real. I didn't make them up in my head. Prim sees it. Gale recognizes it. The only person that refuses to accept it is Katniss because she's too caught up in her fear of losing the ones she loves. I finally get it. If she doesn't love anything, she can't lose anything.

The anger and hurt bubbles up inside of me rapidly. I struggle to keep my voice low. "I'm sorry that I kissed you the way I did. The timing was wrong, but I don't regret it. I would regret it if I lost your friendship, and I know you would, too."

Katniss shakes her head back and forth slowly, yet sadness rolls off of her in waves. "Peeta, you don't understand," she says breathlessly. It's a lie. Why would she be sad if she wanted me gone?

"I understand you, Katniss. More than you know."

_I've been noticing you for years. _I desperately want to say._ I've loved you for years and knowing you has made me love you more._ Before, I held back from saying those words because I was afraid of how she might react. Now, I refuse because I know how important and how honest the words are and I don't want them ruined with her lies.

"You make up these reasons why I can't be in your life. To protect your sister, your reputation, and now me. And no one wants it! Your sister likes me, you can be redeemed from the rumors, and I want to be here. The only person you're protecting is you. From something _you_ don't understand." The picnic table creaks as I scoot out to stand up. I inhale a deep, shaky breath. There's a lot more noise around us then there was when we first arrived. I speak only loud enough so Katniss can hear. "But you can't fight alone forever, Katniss. No one can."

I pick up the bowl and carry it a few feet over the soup woman's counter. The woman takes the bowl, nodding her thanks.

I slowly turn back to the table. Patrons walk back and forth between us. Miners mostly, casting coal dust from their clothes. Katniss sits absolutely still, expressionless. I'm never the first to walk away, but today I have no choice. I can't fight for this alone any longer.


	9. Chapter 9

A/N: Hello kittens! Alas, so much time has passed us by, which makes me so appreciative of every reader, old and new. And I have to give a special thank you to Jacky and Christen for being so supportive through my whining. Mfwickee!

For reading this chapter, you will receive a soccer ball, but you better call Boothe to come over and play. He's so lonesome.

**This chapter is rated M for mature language. I'm not kidding. **

Reviews are always appreciated. Merry Christmas!

**Chapter 9: **

"You missed!"

_He missed the last four tries._

"I'd like to see you do better."

_She couldn't hit the broad side of a slag heap._

"You said you were going to win me a yellow one."

_And he didn't, so why don't we…_

"I won you three already."

_Three that are going to shrivel up and wilt in your sweaty hand before the end of the day. _

"Three flowers do not make a bouquet."

_She would know. She is the florist's daughter. _

"When did I promise you a bouquet?"

_Around the time I started banging my head against this post here. _

"Please, Rilee."

_If I have to listen to this cutesy prattle for one more minute…_

"Fine," Rilee sighs dramatically. Kinnian Klee grins, knowing that this flirting back and forth between she and Rilee has been the real game all along—one that she was always going to win. "Let's go back to the bucket game. I'm better at that one."

_Yes! The bucket game! The one for first through fourth graders! _

I never should have agreed to this. I'm not even sure how Rilee managed to rook me into it. One second I'm telling him that I have no plans to go to the festival, the next he's telling me that I owe this to him, you know, for that time I knocked his head into my bedroom door, which he deserved, but I didn't mention that. When I refused, he threatened to go to Mom and tell her about the head meets door incident. The little twit. Threatening to tattle like a ten year old, and after I covered work for him twice. Rilee is eighteen years old for god's sake. That shit has to end soon.

I should have let him tattle and suffered the inevitable grounding. It would have prevented me from having to come to this stupid festival.

Since we have final exams in the morning there's only a half day of school. Afterwards, we're treated to an end-of-the-year party out on the front lawn, weather permitting. Everyone eats lunch outside. Then we have the option of sticking around and playing various outdoor games or cutting out early and going home. Almost everyone stays, even though most of the games consist of throwing a ball or a dart or a beanbag at a stack of cans or a target or a string of buckets. That in itself tells you something about our home lives in District 12.

If you succeed in knocking, hitting, or tossing said object into the goal then you win a prize. Each game earns the exact same prize. It's been that way for a good twenty-five years or so, according to my dad. A win earns a flower, not a real one, mind you; a paper flower. Meticulously folded by a club of junior girls who spend a week making them, only to have the guys win them as prizes, and give them back to the girls as gifts, while the girls pretend it is the most thoughtful gesture ever conceived.

Come to think of it, maybe girls are better at the whole strategy thing then guys are. And of course, there's an unspoken competition between the girls to see who can rack up the most flowers and the biggest bouquet.

"For the lady," Rilee says genially, handing Kinnian a yellow flower neatly folded into the shape of a lily. He successfully landed a rubber ball into a rusty bucket about six feet away.

"Thank you," Kinnian replies sweetly as she adds it to her collection. Kinnian is popular enough that she should be doing much better in the secret bouquet competition than she is; however, she's not accepting flowers from other guys. I guess I'm here to make sure no one makes an offer. Rilee leans into closer toward her, whispering something into her ear. She smiles, laughs, and playfully pushes him away. I roll my eyes for the hundredth time today.

The festival was fun when I was younger and only cared about the games. It was even fun when I grew older and had a girl to give a flower to. Now, at my age, when you go to the festival stag, so to speak, it loses its charm. It's far worse when you tag along with a couple in the early honeymoon stage.

Not that Rilee and Kinnian are officially a couple. I was instructed not to breathe the word _couple_. Rilee says they're not dating…yet. That's why I was hijacked to be the wingman. Being in a group makes it seem less date-like, but Rilee couldn't suggest hanging out with Kinnian's usual group of friends. That would have included Gusset, and it's rather counterintuitive to invite the ex-boyfriend of the girl you're trying to date.

So, here I am. Watching Rilee put on his best show at being a gentleman while listening to Kinnian soak it all up and giggle incessantly. She's come a long way from the girl who used to jump in mud puddles.

"I'm going to get some kettle corn," Kinnian says while pretending to sniff her flowers. She'll find they smell like paper. "Do you want me to get you a bag?"

"No thanks, sweets," Rilee answers.

"Peeta? Would you like one?"

_Is she talking to me? _Huh. This is the first time today either of them has paid me any attention. The offer is tempting. The kettle corn stand is a big deal for the festival because it is set up once every few years and it's free. I think the Mayor pays for it or something—a very rare moment of generosity in Twelve. I notice Boothe's mother hovering over a huge black kettle as she makes a fresh batch. Boothe also helps to hand out the bags of popcorn alongside his parents and younger brother, and he and I aren't exactly on good terms right now. "Uh, no thank you," I reply quietly.

"Be right back." With a wink Kinnian shuffles off to the end of the long line. Rilee watches her walk away for several seconds while releasing a satisfied sigh.

I roll my eyes. Again. Rilee-in-love is the most annoying version of Rilee I've yet to encounter.

"Are you going to play any games?" Rilee asks distractedly. He's still staring at Kinnian's retreating form.

"No. I'm bored of them," I reply. It's kind of the truth. I'm bored with the festival in general. I have no one to offer a flower to anyway.

"This is it, man. I tell you this is _it_!" Rilee exclaims when Kinnian is out of earshot.

"What makes you so sure? She hasn't agreed to date you yet, has she?" I ask, uninterested.

"No, but I was thinking of asking her tonight. At the party." He waggles his eyebrows at me. When he says "the party" he doesn't mean the festival going on now. He means _the_ party—a very exclusive event. It's as much of a tradition as the festival, but it's not sanctioned by the government. Mostly, it's just hiding out in some town kid's bedroom with half-empty bottles of white liquor they pilfered from their parents' cupboards. That's what I've heard anyway. Plus you can always tell who went by noting who's hung-over during their exams on the last day of school.

I shake my head and wander off toward the abandoned goldfish booth. "You're unbelievable," I mutter. I take a seat on the edge of a shoddily constructed half wall. I'm lucky when it doesn't come apart under my weight. The goldfish game is the only game where you can win something other than a flower. They go fast and you're lucky to get a shot at one. They're all caught within the first hour of the festival. They're not bad as pets if you can keep the water clean from soot. Although, some of the townies joke that the Seam kids win them so they can eat them.

"I don't want to rush her into it too quickly, but…I don't know. I can't wait any longer," he says, barely containing his excitement. He perches next to me on the temporary wall. It creaks, but doesn't give way.

I want to ask him what he considers "rushing" to be relative to pursuing a relationship because we seem to have very different definitions. I pushed Katniss in the tiniest increments imaginable toward a relationship whereas Kinnian has already had dinner at our house. Last Sunday. Unfortunately, Rilee didn't warn Miche ahead of time so naturally Grace was there, too. That was a fun night. Grace stared at her plate most of the evening, casting annoyed looks at Rilee or Miche once in a while. Kinnian was completely embarrassed. And Dad tried to patch together awkward dinner conversation by going on and on about his idea for a new cheese bread recipe. Whenever he's nervous he starts yammering about bread.

"I can't believe you!" I finally erupt. "Miche is in the doghouse because of you, Grace is furious, half the senior class thinks you're an asshole, and you just go on smiling like you don't even care." I may be the wingman here, but I'm not the reason that not even her guy friends are offering Kinnian any flowers. In fact, the rumor chain is of the mindset that Rilee is a jerk who swooped in on the girlfriend of one of his good friends, and they no longer want anything to do with him anymore.

"Why should I care?" Rilee asks pointedly. The fact that he would ask such a thing solidifies the asshole reputation.

"You're hurting people to get this girl and you don't act the least bit remorseful about it!" I shout. Luckily, this booth has been abandoned long enough that no one is close enough to hear me over the shrieks of people winning the games.

Rilee jumps up from the half wall. He disgustingly sucks something out of his teeth before he begins. "First off, I didn't break up Kinni and Gus. She dumped him," he spells out carefully.

I know the gossip well, possibly better than he does. Not that I'm proud of that. Once you start _trying_ to listen in on gossip, it's hard to stop. "And you leapt on her when she was at her most vulnerable. She's too emotional to see through your shit."

Rilee scoffs, taking a step back. His eyes read complete disbelief. "That's a pretty shitty accusation to make of your own brother, Peeta."

I sniff and shrug indifferently in defense. I'm only saying what's true. Besides, he's made much more depraved assumptions of me in the past.

"What's wrong with you?" he asks, his whole body clenching up with frustration.

"Nothing," I snap. "I told you I didn't want to come."

"Well, excuse me for throwing your pathetic ass a bone."

"What?" I question seriously. I'm the one who's doing him a favor.

"You've been moody for weeks," he states.

_It's been a rough couple of weeks._

"When I asked you to come with Kinni and me," Rilee continues. _Asked?_ Doesn't he mean _coerced_? "I figured some of your friends would pal around with us. I see now you're just as much fun at school as you are at home."

_Ah._ Now the whole scheme comes to light. Rilee assumed my friends would want to hang out with me, despite the social standing of my brother at the moment, and that would have provided him the whole group angle he was going for. He didn't anticipate that I haven't engaged with my friends beyond basic pleasantries for a week, if not longer, nor do I have any interest in rekindling those relationships after the gossip they spread about me. And the one loyal friend I did have, Boothe, is still irritated about the string of broken promises I've made to him lately. Suffice it to say, I don't have any friends left. So, Rilee's strategy to use me didn't work out for him. Well, too fucking bad. "Whatever," I grumble, shoving my hands into the front pockets of my jacket.

Rilee sighs. He glances over his shoulder to check on Kinnian. She's close to the front of the line, only three people are ahead of her. Rilee dips his chin to his chest, staring at the grass as he digs the toe of his shoe into the wet dirt. Kinnian must always make him think of mud. "Look, I'm sorry that Grace and Miche are upset," Rilee mumbles. Apologies don't come easy for him, not in any shape or form. "But Gusset didn't treat Kinni like she deserves to be treated. And frankly, I am relieved that she did something about it instead of dragging out a relationship that made her unhappy." He looks over to Kinnian a second time. She's tapping her foot with impatience, as are the people behind her. I don't blame them. The smell of popcorn wafting through the air is mouth-watering.

Suddenly, she stops tapping her foot, and I see why. She's looking this way. At Rilee. She flashes him an embarrassed smile, whether it's because she was caught staring or because she caught Rilee staring at her, I can't tell. She tucks a stray length of her red hair behind her ear before smelling her paper flowers again.

Rilee looks back at me, struggling to fight his own grin. "I know you think I'm a self-centered prick, but she's the girl. She's it for me," he declares reverently. Granted, I've never heard my brother speak this way about any girl, so that should assure me of his seriousness, but this is _Rilee_. He's a con artist, a schemer. He lies when it suits him and he takes advantage of people to serve his own benefits. That's the personality I grew up with. It's hard for me to accept anything else as sincere. "If that means I'm on a few people's shit list for a while, I don't care. They'll get over it. If it means I can have her…" His voice fades away with a gust of popcorn scented wind.

I inwardly scoff at his naiveté. It's all very sweet. So romantic. However, I know a thing or two about being on people's shit lists. We'll see how long he handles that.

"Where's your girl anyway?" Rilee asks suddenly. "The dark-haired one?"

I look up only because I'm too shocked to control my body. How can he ask that so casually after everything that's gone on? Whatever happened to "slumming it" with a girl from the Seam? What happened to not risking his neck for me? He couldn't possibly be okay with the "dark-haired one". Rilee hasn't changed that much.

No part of me really wants to know the answers to any of those questions. They don't matter. "She's not my girl," I whisper. _She never was, was she?_

Before Rilee can respond, Kinnian comes shuffling back, her small bouquet tucked inside the crook of her elbow so she can use her free hand to toss pieces of sugar and butter coated popcorn into her mouth. "This stuff is better than I remember," she hums with delight. Rilee reaches over to snag a kernel, but she instinctual shifts out of his reach. "You said you didn't want any," she reminds him.

"You're not going to share?" Rilee asks with a playfully offended tone in his voice.

"No way," Kinnian says assuredly, popping another sweet morsel into her mouth. "I tried to get extra portions, but they wouldn't budge. 'One per person,' they said. They thought I was trying to get extra for myself. I must not have an honest face."

"It's just as honest as mine," Rilee declares, deftly sliding his arm over her shoulders.

She puts her hand to her chest in mock horror. "I'm worse off than I thought!" she exclaims. Rilee makes an annoyed face and pulls his arm off of her. If the two of them were still nine years old he'd have stuck his tongue out at her.

_Huh_. All this time, I haven't been giving Kinnian enough credit. She is the one who did the breaking up with Gusset, so maybe she's not the emotional mess I thought. More importantly, she does see through Rilee and all his games, which means she's not being taken advantage of. This fills me with a great sense of relief for both of them, and reminds me how dangerous it is to put faith in rumors. Kinnian is a smart girl. She's smart enough to get out of a bad relationship and she's smart enough to handle Rilee. Maybe it will work out. I can only hope.

"If you guys want any you better hurry before they run out," Kinnian advises. The line to the kettle corn is still long. I'm fairly certain some of those people are trying to get a second portion from the way they're still sucking sugar off their fingers.

"I guess we'd better get in line then, huh Peeta?" Rilee gestures toward the popcorn booth. Boothe. Something tells me they're going to run out right before it gets to my turn.

"You two go ahead. I think I'm going to grab my stuff and head home," I decide. I'm done ruining their date or precursor date or whatever. I'm a terrible wingman and Rilee evidently doesn't need my help to win over Kinnian. It's become clear that she's here because she wants to be. It's better if I leave.

"Are you sure? You haven't played any games yet," Kinnian says gently.

"Peeta thinks he's too old for festival games," Rilee sneers.

I glance at the large aluminum pail that's only holding water now, a group of first graders groaning over failing to knock down a stack of tin cans, and the childish, crinkled paper flowers trapped under Kinnian's arm. I was too old for this by the first time I burned my wrist on the ovens in the bakery. What was that, age ten?

"Well, he'll think differently when he's a senior and he's staring down a life of unending, backbreaking work," Kinnian says knowingly.

"What part of flower arranging is backbreaking?" Rilee asks.

_Oh man. And he's trying to get this girl to like him? _

Kinnian grasps her bouquet and hits Rilee squarely on the nose. He wrinkles his face as if she punched him. Then she clears her throat and confidently says, "I'm simply saying that when the time comes when you finish school and take your place in the real world, you will appreciate things like this stupid festival and the silly paper flowers someone won for you." Kinnian hugs both her popcorn and slightly crumpled flowers against her.

"Well put," Rilee wisely compliments, tweaking a piece of her wavy hair between his fingers.

"_And_ my father takes care of the landscaping for the entire district," she adds, asserting the importance of her family's position. In actuality, the landscaping of District 12 doesn't add up to a whole lot of work, but neither Rilee nor I tell her as much.

To tell the truth, I'm taken aback by the Kinnian's assessment of the festival. She's half right, I suppose. There are town kids or even Seam kids who don't work until they hit eighteen, but then there are the rest of us, who are already taking part in the work we're going to contribute to District Twelve's economy after graduation. Kinnian would count herself a part of that first group that hasn't worked a day yet, which is why graduating is so significant for her. However, at least she appreciates it. And who knew the florist's daughter had such a dismal world view? Or, a realistic world view anyway. I'm beginning to see what Rilee sees in her. She's no typical townie airhead.

"Are you coming to the party tonight?" she asks in my direction.

Rilee quickly answers for me. "It's seniors only."

"No one will care," Kinnian insists. "You know, Vesta would love it if—"

And there's my cue to leave. "Thanks, but that's not necessary. Have fun."

"I'll see you back at home, Peeta!" Rilee calls out as I quickly walk off toward the school entrance. I might see him for dinner, but that will be it. He'll tell Mom he's heading out to a friend's house for a long study session and come home after my parents are in bed, if he comes home at all. I wonder who will take over the after party tradition for my class when the time comes. I wonder if I'll want to go. I'm not all that interested in drinking, but after listening to Kinnian's speech on the sad future we have ahead of us, I can understand why they want to toast the end of their uncomplicated youth.

The smell of kettle corn follows me into the building, pitching an assault on my grumbling stomach. Each of my footsteps echoes in the empty hallways. No students or teachers. Everyone is outside enjoying the sunshine and the celebrating the near end of another school year. Tomorrow is my easiest day of exams, study hall and gym. Nothing to study for. Basically, I have to show up. Maybe I should take Kinnian up on the party invitation. It's not like I have anything else to do.

My locker looks sad, near empty; just my school bag, an extra sweatshirt, and a few leftover notebooks still reside. I stuff the sweatshirt and notebooks into my bag to save for next year. I'm pleased by how light my bag is today as opposed to last Tuesday—the day when everything went to hell.

The more I relive the events of that day, the less convinced I am that it happened. I made plans with Boothe—a normal, everyday thing. I had a conversation with Rilee that was not typical of the two of us, but something typical of high school. But then to have a conversation with Gale Hawthorne? And to come out unscathed after everything that's gone on? That's when the day turned surreal.

However, all those scenes are more or less uninteresting compared to the blowout of an exchange I had with the girl who shall now be known as the "dark-haired one" because apparently that's all she is to me.

I can't put anymore thought into that day. I never get anywhere and it puts me in a nasty disposition. And when you consider how my frame of mind has fluctuated from being elated one week to despondent the next…Rilee's right. I have been a moody bastard lately.

The worst part is I'm at a complete loss as to what to do next. I left myself with no moves, no strategy. I'm talking chess with a completely unprotected queen or soccer with an open goal. I promised myself I would be patient and persistent with Katniss, but the things she said led me to question if there was any point. My time, my attention, and my heart were going to end up wasted on a lost cause if she didn't want…if she couldn't see…

I had no other option. I put everything I had out on the table, leaving myself wholly vulnerable. Sadly, her response was silence, then and now.

All this thinking may have been a small reason I agreed to come out with Rilee today. When I'm alone with my thoughts I agonize over that conversation repeatedly. She doesn't date because she doesn't want her future kids to suffer? Who thinks like that at sixteen? _What a stupid question,_ I chastise myself. People who have had to care for a kid for four years think like that. They plan ahead. They have a firm grasp of what it takes to survive and they won't let anything complicate that, especially townies who kiss them and mess up their reputations.

Alright. That's enough musing on the dark-haired one for this hour.

With my locker completely empty, I throw my bag over my shoulder and contemplate where I would like to spend the rest of my open afternoon. I'm off from work, like usual. I could go home, but then I'll have to stay up in my room to avoid Mom. I can always tell her I have to study. The only thing left is to wander around town or the park on my own, which doesn't appeal to me.

This is place is too small, too isolated, and too suffocating. I'm amazed there is enough air for us all to breathe. There's no room to hide or escape, move or grow. That's the point though. District Twelve isn't meant to grow or change and neither are its citizens. Like Kinnian said, our vocations are set the day when we're born with little variation. And for the majority of my life I was fine with that. Between my home, the bakery, school, and town, I had enough. I didn't even think to ask for anything more. Yet now, I feel trapped. Because with the dark-haired one…Katniss…came the Seam, the Meadow, the Hob, her matchless personality, her sister, and just…her. My life opened up when Katniss was a part of it, and to have to go back to solitary pining sounds like a torturous life sentence. Because, let's face it, she may not want them, but the feelings have not gone away.

However, I have one accomplishment I can be proud of. Other than the thoughts on our last conversation, I have not physically paid Katniss any attention. That's right. I purposefully and successfully ignored Katniss Everdeen—a phenomenal feat of mental focus and concentration. I didn't look for her at lunch. I actually paid attention in History class, which worked out because I was astoundingly unprepared for the final exam. It was both an easy and difficult task. Difficult because I wasn't speaking much to any of my friends, and ironically it can be exhaustive to be silent day after day. Easy, because I was and still am upset by the hurtful things she said. Telling me I don't understand her. What a joke that is. I saw through her attempt to scare me off and I see through to her fears about being made vulnerable by attaching herself to someone else. But people aren't meant to be alone, not even us lowly citizens of Twelve. She needs to understand _that_. Even if that means Katniss only wants me as a friend; well, I'd rather be friends than nothing. Rather than she be alone.

Anyway, the point is I didn't go to her last week and I'm not going to her today. She needs to approach me this time. Except she didn't, which means she's not going to. From her perspective, I did her a favor. I walked away, which is what she's always wanted.

Goddammit. What was I thinking walking off like that?

I'm never going to talk to Katniss again. I'll see her in the bakery, unless she finds a way to avoid me, and she could because she's very good at it. Perhaps once or twice a year I'll trade her a loaf of bread for a squirrel and that will be it. She's not going to seek me out. Let's not kid around here, Katniss, the most prideful person in existence, is never going to come up to me and say, "Hey! How's life? How's your frosting technique coming along?" Rilee will come into the bakery early on a Sunday morning before she—

I stop midstride when I turn the corner. The intoxicating smell of kettle corn teasing my hungry stomach must be getting to me because I'm seeing things.

Katniss is there. Leaning against the wall at the spot that I've become much too emotionally attached to. The place where she meets her sister. The place where I meet her. She looks up while I remain frozen. There's no one else here, not even Prim. There's no one else for her to meet up with.

"Didn't win any flowers?" she asks quietly.

Flowers? I didn't even think to win Katniss any flowers. I was too busy wallowing. And honestly, what are the odds she'd actually want them? Still, it saddens me when I notice she doesn't have a single stem. Not even Hawthorne stepped up? But then again, I have a hard time visualizing Hawthorne and Katniss putting on a Rilee and Kinnian routine. Blech.

"I didn't try," I explain.

The silence of the empty building makes the lull in our brief chat stretch out endlessly. Katniss stares down at the mile of flooring between us. Really, it's only about six feet but we might as well be miles apart if neither of us moves or speaks again.

_She's here. And you didn't have to chase her down. This is what you wanted, idiot, _I tell myself inwardly. "Uh…did you?" I fumble. Throw the exact same question back at her. That makes for good conversation.

Katniss stands up from the wall, but keeps touching the bricks with the fingers of her right hand. The week hasn't changed her much. There are wisps of peeling skin on her cheeks and forehead—probably from sunburn. It hasn't been hot, but it has been sunny, and Katniss must have been spending her time out of doors. Even with those imperfections, her hair has a beautiful sheen, her eyes are soulful, and I can't tell because of the scent of kettle corn wafting in the air, but I'd bet she smells like pine trees and fresh air. My gut twists in a familiar way. My Katniss-free week did nothing to make that stop. If anything, it's intensified because I've gone a week without her.

"I gave mine to Prim," she says, getting back to the question about the game prizes. That makes sense. With her unbelievable skill and aim winning the games must have been; well, a lot easier than shooting squirrel through the eye.

"I bet she's got the biggest bouquet of all."

"I didn't notice."

Of course she didn't. Katniss is probably unaware there's a competition going on.

A second standstill hits us. It makes the strained conversations we've had in weeks prior to this seem as light and airy as angel's food cake. I ache to close the gap of space between us, but find the will to hold back. I didn't state my case last week for nothing. Katniss has to be the one to move things forward between us. So I'll wait.

And wait.

And wait.

And wait.

And then finally…

"How did you do on the History exam?" Katniss asks.

Damn. Not exactly, "Oh Peeta! I was so wrong! Please be my boyfriend!" Instead, she goes back to our go-to small talk topic. She must be nostalgic. End of the year and all.

"I won't ever have to take the class again. That's a relief." Although I've lost a lot of valuable sketching time. "You?"

She smiles weakly. "Same."

I want to find something significant in the things she says or the gestures she makes; however, she reveals nothing. This is practically a reenactment of our first awkward encounter in this hallway, except that this time, she initiated it. I have to believe there is some significance in that.

"Are you enjoying the festival?" Katniss mutters to carry on the conversation.

"Not really," I answer honestly.

She nods while picking a chipped shard of paint from the wall. "It's a distraction at least." Just like everything else in the district, the festival comes with its own stock of rumors and speculation about why the school puts it on every year. Some say it's for reasons other than celebrating the end of the school year, like making sure we all get a nice hurrah in our home district before the big events of the next couple weeks. Well, it's nice that they give us one pleasant memory of District 12.

"You know, when I was younger I looked forward to the festival the entire school year." Mindlessly, I step forward. I'm reassured when she doesn't back away. "I had it built up in my mind like it was the greatest day. But I look at it now, and it's just rusted out twenty year old games and disposable paper flowers." I lean back against the cool brick wall, in the same position I have found Katniss multiple times. Katniss joins me.

"The games are probably fifty years old," Katniss says. There's a slight teasing edge to her voice that I only hear when she allows herself to relax around me. I guess moving to stand beside her was a good move. My proximity has never has a calming effect on Katniss before. There's a first time for everything, right?

"Probably," I say in agreement.

"I'd rather be hunting," she murmurs, impulsively playing with the tail end of her braid.

Well, there's an idea. One that doesn't include town, the Seam, or anything within in the limits of District 12. "Why don't we?"

"What?" she gapes, holding the lock of hair motionless between her fingers.

"Let's go hunting," I say excitedly, and too loudly, considering I'm suggesting something illegal. Luckily, we're alone.

"You don't hunt," Katniss says, pointing out the obvious. That depends on the definition of "hunt", because I swear I've been hunting this girl for the past two months, if not longer. But for the time being, we'll go with the traditional definition.

"I swear I've been practicing my technique." I push off the wall and show her my perfected imaginary archery form. Back straight, head centered, three fingers on the string, don't let the bow fall, and all that. Were I to have a real bow in my hands, I would have nailed the clock on the wall.

"It's improving," Katniss says quietly, folding up her arms against her body.

I swing around to face her again. "What do you say?"

"It's dangerous," she spits.

"You brought me to the Seam and the Hob."

"You're life wasn't in danger at the Hob."

_So you care what happens to my life?_ Whoa. Hold on. The expectations are getting out of control today._ Focus on the task at hand, Mellark._ "I'll be with you, so I'll be safe," I argue playfully while bouncing on my heels. Honestly, I put a lot of faith in Katniss' ability to keep me alive, especially on her turf.

Katniss huffs indignantly, like my comment suggests torture instead of a compliment. "I could abandon you in the woods and you'd never find your way home."

Idle threats…I hope. I gulp away my doubts. "I'm willing to take that risk," I say steadily, but Katniss holds firm with her arms folded and her jaw set tight. And because I'm not ashamed to beg I insert, "Please?" Sadly, all that does is make her chin lift up and her eyes dart away, like she's done considering the matter entirely. I understand her reluctance. Leaving the district is against the law and taking along a useless novice will slow her down. Now that I give the idea a second thought, it is an extremely reckless thing to do just to kill some time—not something I would typically indulge in. But even with the knowledge that it could lead to disaster, after feeling stifled by my surroundings for days, I can't let it go. "You don't see how lucky you have it, do you?" I blurt out.

Katniss' eyes flicker with confusion and a little bit of offense. No kid from the Seam wants a townie telling them how lucky they are. I quickly backpedal, "I mean, you've been outside the fence!" Again I'm too loud. "I understand that it's not real freedom, you're still tied to your responsibilities, but you know what it feels like to stand without single fence surrounding you. I would give anything to know that feeling," I confess. It's a new desire; in fact, it didn't occur to me until Katniss said the word "hunting", but it's real and raw, and I hope Katniss can sense my sincerity. She's very difficult to read. Her stance is strong, the crease between her eyes tells me she's annoyed, yet I barely discern indecision in her eyes.

"I have to talk to Prim," she says, as if that explains something. Katniss turns on her heels, walking determinedly onto the front lawn. I follow behind, but at a slight distance. We definitely don't look like we're on one of our walks together, although, since the whole Gusset/Kinnian/Rilee gossip bomb exploded no one is talking about us anymore—the upside to having a jackass for a brother.

Katniss easily detects her sister in the crowd. And I was right. Prim does have the biggest bouquet of them all, and I bet they're not all from Katniss either. I partially hide myself behind the wall of the dart booth while they talk. I don't know why I'm hiding. Katniss didn't instruct me to do so. But if we're doing this hunting thing, than it has to be a covert operation, right? We need alibis and the less witnesses, the better.

Katniss and Prim's conversation ends with a kiss and then Katniss takes off like a shot. I zigzag through the crowd to catch up with her, while also trying not to look like a lunatic. It's not until we've reached the square that Katniss slows down enough to let me fall in step beside her. A mid-afternoon lull rules the square after the lunch rush and before the after-school rush. Even though school ended early today, there will still be a rush around three. Humans are creatures of habit. I'm a little breathless after the half-jog or maybe it's from the rush of adrenaline; however, Katniss is completely calm. I try to ease my breathing, if only to instill some confidence in Katniss. I'm finding it difficult however, because it's only now hitting me. I'm escaping the district and going into the forest…with Katniss.

My brothers and a few of my friends have claimed to have gone out there. I've never had an incentive great enough to risk it. This is definitely worth it. The forest is Katniss' sanctuary. There's no annoying gossip or pettiness or social prejudice out there. There's simply survival, and no one knows how to survive like Katniss. And she's taking _me_ there. That's a far cry from last week when she tried to convince me she didn't want me in her life at all. Although, she hasn't actually confirmed…well, anything yet. She hasn't confirmed that we're headed for the woods nor has she confirmed that she wants me in her life. Best to start with the smaller issue.

"So, where are we going?" I whisper. I catch her rolling her eyes. Okay. Stupid question. "Are you sure about this?"

She comes to a halt in front of the window of the grocers. I almost trip over my own feet attempting to do the same. Her eyes narrow fiercely, and even though she only comes up to my shoulder, the scowl makes me feel about two inches tall. "Are _you_ sure? Because honestly, I don't care one way or the other," she hisses.

It may be some misguided hopes and expectations driving me, but my instincts tell me this can't be entirely true. Why would Katniss talk to me, why would she agree to take me into her woods, if she doesn't care? Believe it or not, it's the scowl that makes me doubt her. She speaks indifference; however, when she puts on that scowl it's because she's hurt or angry or offended or _something_. It's not because she's indifferent. There are feelings hidden behind that mask, and no matter if they're positive or negative, they are passionate. I'm determined to find out what they are. "I'm sure," I state with new confidence.

Without another word, Katniss brushes past me, hurrying along the sidewalk. I remain a half step behind her. We're making record time walking the same route we would normally take to her house. It's incredible how important this trail has become to me, not to mention the memories it stirs up. Not before long Katniss and I are traipsing through the grasses of the Meadow and I can't help but wonder if she thinks about our kiss when she comes out here. It's not like anyone else has kissed her in the Meadow, other than Lady perhaps.

When we come near the end of the Meadow and are faced with the fence, Katniss slows and comes to a stop. I carefully observe the boundary marker separating us from the perilous wilderness, trying to decipher how we're going to get through it or over it or whatever. I hope the idea isn't to climb over it because the barbed wire along the top is rather uninviting. Katniss issues no directions. She stands very still.

"What are we doing?" I whisper.

"We're listening," she answers at a normal volume.

Is that what we were doing? "For what?"

"For the electricity."

I was so put off by the height of the fence and the sight of the barbed wire I didn't think to consider the burning current of electricity that's running through the fence. I adjust my focus and listen for the dangerous buzzing sound, but all I hear is the gentle swaying of the grass from the wind. Satisfied that there is no danger, Katniss kicks away some brush from the ground. Underneath is a slight ditch where the fence has lifted up from the earth with just enough space to crawl under. Katniss waves her hand in front of her body to usher me forward. This is turning out to be a lot easier than I thought. I wonder if my brothers knew about this gap in the fence.

"I feel like you're giving away trade secrets. To a merchant no less," I say with amazement.

She smirks. She tries to hide it, but I see it. "Uh, checking to see that the electricity isn't turned on isn't much of a secret. But I wouldn't put it past a merchant to forget."

I don't point how right she is.

While Katniss still holds back the brush, I kneel down and try to recall the last time I crawled through dirt on my stomach and elbows. Absolutely nothing comes to mind, other than hitting the dirt occasionally while playing outdoor sports, but I must have done this kind of thing when I was a kid. I'm sure it looks as awkward as it feels, which I'm also sure does not impress Katniss in the least. My schoolbag gets caught on the jagged edge of the bottom of the fence. I'm too wound up thinking about how the electricity might suddenly come on, so instead of stopping to disentangle it, I yank on it and listen to it rip. What a fantastic way to start. I'm just waiting to hear Katniss laugh out loud at my amateur moves. Thankfully, I avoid any further injury to my body or my clothing when I'm finally through, save for some dirt. Katniss shimmies under with ease, clearing the fence before I can clean off the dirt from my jacket. Somehow, she manages to make her way through without getting anything on her clothes.

No fair. She's had practice.

"Follow," she orders. I wisely obey. No way am I going to risk getting left behind.

At first, I keep to her heels like one of Prim's pets, staring at the ground so I don't trip over anything. But very soon, I'm distracted.

The ground is soft under my feet, damp with spring rain. I kick up old, wilted leaves and brown pine needles with each step; a few have already worked their way into my shoes. Sprigs of bright green pop up amongst the leftover foliage from last fall. My eyes follow the green coloring to the deep green moss growing on the trunks of elms or maples…I can't really tell the difference. I visually travel up and up and up with the green moss until my neck cranes back as far as it will go and I'm slack-jawed staring at the endless number of fresh green leaves overhead. The air is so much cleaner here. The rain and the plants filter the coal dust away. My lungs fill with their first breath of unpolluted air.

The sound of someone clearing her throat snaps me out of my observation. I follow the sound to Katniss, who stands a ways away, and nearly blends into her surroundings without even trying. Apparently, while I took everything in, I stopped moving. At least I didn't keep on walking and run myself into a tree. I expect her to tease me for my astonished fascination; instead, she flicks her head to gesture which direction she's headed in. She must feel it, too. The trance-like effect this place has on a weary soul. Maybe she's seen how miserable I was this week. Maybe she knows I needed this.

My eyes flicker from one wonder of nature to the next, but I keep a closer eye on Katniss so I don't lose her. The uniformity of the pine trees mesmerizes, but I find the deciduous trees (yes, I remember one thing from earth science) much more interesting. The way the contour lines of the trees flow from the heavy trunk through the multiple splits of the branches to the tips of the leaves is enthralling. I don't get a chance to draw trees often; flowers are more common, since I make them in frosting constantly. Suddenly, I itch to fill up those half-empty notebooks in my schoolbag with sketches.

When I look for Katniss again there's a blasted, frightening second when I think I've lost her, but then I see she's crouched low to the ground, digging on the inside of a moss covered log. I exhale a sigh of relief. When I reach her, she retrieves a long slender object that I recognize as a bow. And it's definitely not imaginary.

"Wow," I breathe. "So that's the bow that brings me squirrels."

"This is it," Katniss responds proudly, the awkwardness of our earlier conversation missing for the time being. Katniss is completely in her element here, more so than the Seam or the Hob. "I have a hand in it as well," she deadpans.

I've never enjoyed being teased so thoroughly. "Can I try it?" Without answering, she holds it out for me. I take it gently with both my hands. The wood feels smooth, worn down slightly in the middle where her hand must rest. It's lighter than I imagined, given the level of importance this object must mean to her.

"It was my father's," she says reverently.

_Whoa_. Suddenly, it gets much, much heavier. "Uh, maybe you should take this back. I don't want to break it." I awkwardly hold it out to her like it's made of glass.

"You're not going to break it," Katniss promises, a small grin sliding onto her lips. She bends down a second time, reaching into the log, and retrieves a thin leather pouch with the tails of arrows poking out the end of it. She takes a seat on the fallen tree, tucking one foot underneath her. "I'll be surprised if you can nock it."

So, Everdeen talks trash now, huh? "I carry tremendously heavy bags of flour every day. I'm not weak," I assert. If I were with Vesta, this is the point where she'd tell me to strike a pose so she can get a good look at me. I doubt that is Katniss' goal.

Katniss carefully removes an arrow from the leather pouch. She presses the pointed end of it against her fingertip, testing out the sharp edge. "Archery calls for flexibility, strength, and concentration. Not just brute force."

"I play soccer. That takes agility. And I wrestle. That takes flexibility." Occasionally, I play field hockey and have to duck people trying to knock me in the head. That takes a lot of dexterity.

"Fair enough, you're athletic," she concedes. She hops off the log, pushing up the sleeves of her jacket. "But you are soft. Look at your hands and look at mine." She holds hers open in front of me, palms up. I do the same. "Yours are soft," she says with only a moment's observation. I've spent a lot of time observing Katniss and maybe if I'd ever really held her hand I would have noticed the calluses sooner. On the fleshy parts of her palms and the along the parts of her fingers where the bow string rubs lies the rough evidence of her time spent hunting. The most significant marks I have are the leftover scars from oven burns and the writers bump on my right middle finger from sketching. Okay, so my hands are a little soft. I'm a step above the florist and the textile merchants.

I set the bow down against the log for a moment as I dramatically remove my schoolbag and drop it on the ground, followed by quickly unzipping my jacket and tossing it on top of the bag. "Give me a chance to build up some calluses. Can I have an arrow, please?" I request, holding out my "soft" hand.

Katniss smirks, deftly twirling the arrow with practiced ease as she considers. "Fine." I make a grab for the arrow, but Katniss keeps a tight hold on it. "Move your feet shoulder width apart," she instructs. I sigh, but follow the directions, and she turns over the arrow.

With both the bow and the arrow in hand, I push down the nerves that suddenly bubble in my gut. Okay, um, left hand in Y formation. Head centered. Uh, fingers around the string. How do I hold the arrow on here? What was that other thing I was supposed to remember with my back or shoulder blades or whatever? "Are there any deer around? I'd love some venison for dinner." I laugh, attempting to hide my lack of skill.

"We must have just missed a herd," Katniss says from her perch on the log, her sarcasm left entirely unveiled. "Besides, you should aim for something that isn't moving. Try that oak tree."

I couldn't tell an oak from an elm, but I assume she means the very, very large tree about thirty feet away. There's even a big knot about six feet up that serves well as a target. Having something to focus on settles my nerves somewhat. My fingers are correctly wound around the string, I know that much. The arrow balances comfortably on my hands. I think back to my imaginary archery lesson and in one—not quite fluid—motion, I lift up the bow and draw back the string until it touches my nose. The resistance is much stronger than I anticipated and I have to fight not to let the string slip from my fingers. Somehow, the arrow holds steady in its place, even though my hands feel like their shaking violently. I catch sight of the knot I'm supposed to be aiming for and before I lose focus, I let it fly.

"GAH!" I shout uncontrollably. I don't even look to see if I hit my target as my body instinctively bends in half. There's a hot, throbbing pain on my left forearm. How did I shoot my own arm? "What the hell?"

"Let me see! Let me see!" Katniss shouts beside me. Her cool hands wrap around and tug on the arm I'm holding against my body. I uncurl from my half-fetal crouch, but close my eyes tight. I can't look. The arrow is embedded there. I'm sure of it. "Sorry," she says soothingly, sounding unalarmed. I bravely sneak a peek. There's no arrow or blood, but there is a harsh red mark. "I should have warned you. String snap. You probably drew back too far." Her fingers brush over the mark, I instinctively shrink back.

"Don't touch it!" I say in an embarrassingly shrill voice.

Katniss doesn't let go. "Sorry," she repeats.

"You said that already," I say gruffly. With the shock of the injury over, I see it's merely a welt—nothing that's going to require stitches and nothing to be screaming about. And nothing…that requires this much of her attention. Katniss continues examining me like an astute healer. Her fingers send pleasurable shocks up my arm as they graze over my skin, while the welt keeps telling me how much it hurts. Katniss pauses, not where the string bit me, but on the slightly pink burn scars that my forearm in particular is covered with. It's a highly susceptible area for bakers. I can't fathom why in all this natural beauty, she would find such fascination with the uninteresting blemishes on my skin. "Is this where you tell me I'm soft again?" My voice shakes. I'm not sure if it's from the pain or from the way she's touching me.

Katniss looks up at the sound of my voice. Like a kid caught in the cookie display, she relinquishes my arm in one quick movement. "It's a common error," she assures me, taking a step back and busying herself with picking up the bow that I must have dropped on the ground while I was holding back tears. "Happens to the best of us." She shrugs.

"Has it ever happened to you?"

"Sure."

"What, when you were ten?"

"Somewhere around there." She smiles.

Hm. That's when I first burned myself on the ovens. We probably had matching welts back then.

"Well, you won't have any calluses but you'll have a nice bruise." She's right. Little red and purple dots are starting to pop up across my skin. Broken capillaries.

"Great. Did I at least hit the tree?" I groan.

"I think you threw the bow when it snapped you. The arrow veered off to the left." She walks in the direction I shot and I follow behind her. The arrow lay innocently in the shrubs nowhere near the tree I was aiming for, but it made some distance. I don't bother to ask Katniss what her longest shot was and risk further embarrassment by comparison.

"Huh. It's clear what we have to do here," I say, picking up the lonely arrow. "You shoot the game. I bake it in a pie."

"Will do," Katniss says while laughing softly. She takes the arrow and expertly slides it into the leather pouch on her back without looking.

Okay, I think archery lessons are over for the day. I'll stick with the imaginary version in the future since the injuries incurred are, well, imaginary. "What else do we do on a hunt?" I ask to change the subject. Hopefully, it's something that won't aggravate the residual sting in my arm.

"We forage." Katniss begins walking with her bow at her side, continuing to describe the forest's secrets. "We dig for roots, pick apples, gather up berries and greens."

Seems simple enough. "I could do _that_." Of course, it would be much easier if I knew where to look…or what to look for.

"Avoid poison oak and berries that could make you sick. Or kill you," she says in a grave voice.

"Well, obviously," I say while bending over to pick up a sturdy branch to use as a walking stick.

"Obvious, yet that's a problem novices can easily fall prey to," Katniss says knowingly. "Much more common than getting eaten by a bear." Suddenly, I remember I'm supposed to be scared of the woods, and I'd never even considered being wary of the plants. Something about being here with _Katniss _overshadows my sense to be afraid, which is good because I'm completely under her guidance. The town is obscured by trees and I've been so distracted by the sights and the sounds of the forest that I haven't paid attention to what direction to take to get back.

"Have you ever seen a bear?" Maybe I can use this walking stick as a weapon.

"Yes, unfortunately," Katniss groans.

I look over at Katniss, watching her disappear behind trees and reappear a second later as she walks. Seeing her here is vastly different from observing her in the district. Katniss is lighter here, even with me tagging along.

"I tried to challenge one for a beehive."

"How did that turn out?"

"About as well as you would guess." We both laugh, and it's one of the best things I've ever experienced.

"Anything else I should look out for?

"Uh, snakes, rabid animals, maybe a lynx. Wild dogs in packs are the biggest threat." I'm sure she's right, but with that bow, I'm also certain Katniss is by far the most dangerous thing in the woods.

We wander while the sun slowly moves across the sky. The path seems aimless to me, but I've no doubt Katniss knows where we're going. She points out a prickly raspberry bush with mostly yellow berries, but we manage to find a healthy pile of red ones by the end of our search. When we come across a particular tree Katniss tells me the story of when she was trapped in it by the pack of wild dogs. She shows me one set of poisonous mushrooms and another set of perfectly safe mushrooms, which look identical to me. I mention taking one of my family's pigs out to go truffle hunting and she questions how we would get it under the fence. I have no answer for her. We don't come by any game, which disappoints me because I would have loved to see Katniss shoot.

At other times we're silent as we walk or as we work, but it's an easy silence, especially with a task before us. My hands get caked with dirt digging for turnips and I try to imagine doing this every single day through summer and winter. I've had it easy with Katniss to show me the ropes, but it must be incredibly hard work to do on her own. And just when I'm thinking that maybe I could do this with her, maybe I could learn to hunt and then she wouldn't have to do it alone, my slow brain remembers an important detail. She doesn't do this alone.

I toss the sad-looking turnips I dug up into a pile with hers and brush my hands together to knock the dirt off. "What else is there to do?" I ask hurriedly, wanting to get my mind away from the path it was previously on.

Katniss sits back on her hands, squinting up at me because of the sunlight. "Well, there's also checking the snare lines and the fish lines."

"Snares? Like traps?"

Katniss nods.

"Let's check some out."

Katniss runs the back of her hand, the least dirty part, under her nose. "I don't think we should." She sniffs.

"Why not?" I ask.

She looks away, then sighs. She carefully puts each of our found turnips into a knapsack bigger than her schoolbag. Finally deciding on a response, she keeps her head down and says, "Revealing too many trade secrets."

We both know very well I don't have much use for learning how to make a snare, nor would I be able to find the traps a second time if I wanted to. If she's protecting this secret from me, it must be because it's not only hers to protect. "And not all of them are yours?" I hedge.

Katniss never gives me an answer. Instead, she dusts herself off and takes the leader role again. It's more of the same: trees, shrubs, ferns, more trees. And when I'm convinced it will never end, the trees thin out, opening up like a gateway to a breathtaking valley that makes the Meadow look like field for livestock, which is one of its functions in actuality. Katniss sits down on a large, smooth rock overlooking the land. I remain standing, attempting to etch the sight into my memory.

"I can see why you'd rather be here. It's incredible. It feels like it goes on forever," I say, awestruck.

"It ends somewhere," Katniss muses.

"How far have you gone out there?"

Her voice floats with the breath of the wind. "Not far enough." It's hard to envision, having only lived in District 12 my whole life, but more exists out there. More people, more land, more life. And if it weren't for the Capitol then we could go out there and find it—not all of us, perhaps, but people like Katniss could.

"Would you ever leave?" I ask, sitting down beside her. My heart burns for the answer as a new fear leaks into my mind: the fear that one day she won't be at school and it will be because she's gone.

"I've thought of it," she whispers vaguely, avoiding giving a definitive answer to the question.

"You could survive," I say tentatively. I'm sincere, but feel reluctant about encouraging her.

"I know I could survive. That doesn't mean it's possible." Katniss is the only person who could make a crazy idea like that happen. I wish in this moment that I could trade all my pointless knowledge about the proper way to frost a cake in exchange for half of what she knows. It's the only way she'd ever take me with her.

Katniss' energy has deflated in comparison to our afternoon. I'm feeling the same way. This experience, this whole day, has been an exercise in distraction. Sadly, we'll find nothing in our lives has changed when we return to Twelve.

"I think I did pretty well for my first outing in the woods. Too bad we didn't come across any game," I say, trying to lift our spirits.

Katniss covers her mouth to stifle a laugh, but snickers through her nose anyway. "You were making too much noise for any game to wander near."

Noise? What kind of noise? I didn't make any more noise than she did. "You didn't say I was being noisy."

Katniss looks me straight in the eye, her skin flushed and her gray eyes alight with humor. "You screamed," she intones.

Common error my ass. I'm never going to live that down. "That was unintentional," I say in defense.

"Even if you hadn't screamed, you were too loud. You couldn't help it. You walk loud."

I stare at my traitor feet stretched out before me. "I walk_ loud_?" I say incredulously. No way. I walk like any normal person walks.

"I'm afraid so," Katniss says, her tone apologetic, but her smirk is not.

Of all the ways I thought I might fail as a hunter I never thought the way I walked would instantly take me out of the running, no pun intended. "Is it hopeless?" I ask, feeling pathetic.

"Quite hopeless."

"I suppose you won't be hiring me to help you fight off the bears any time soon?" I laugh. Katniss abruptly looks away and the laughter dies. I meant it as a joke, but the words hold more weight than planned. We went into this outing without discussing what it means or what it doesn't mean, which was probably a mistake. Like I said, the day has been a distraction, most importantly, a distraction from revealing whatever it was that motivated Katniss to approach me in the first place. "Katniss?" I whisper.

She angles herself toward me, but keeps her eyes downcast. "I don't need someone to fight alongside me," she says flatly, but with honesty.

I should have seen it coming. Hawthorne. The guy has become an immovable roadblock on my path to Katniss. _He's_ her hunting partner—the one who's out here every day digging through muck and skinning rabbits. With my soft townie hands it was stupid to even consider I might be able to fill that role in her world. "Right," I swallow. "You already have that."

"I do," she acknowledges softly.

So what does that leave for me, if anything? She doesn't need a partner, and hell, give Hawthorne the best friend title as well. She doesn't need more family; in fact, the prospect scares the hell out of her. And if she's resolutely against having a boyfriend then there's nothing left for me.

Katniss sits very still with her head bowed. I wish she'd look at me. I might have hope if she'd look at me. Very carefully, and regretting the dirt on my hands, I bring my hand to her little chin, lifting it up and holding her gaze. "What do you need, Katniss?" I ask lowly, begging her to make room, begging for a role, for something that I can add to her life.

"Food, clean water, and a roof over my head," she recites. My hand falls between us, our connection lost. I guess that's the end of it. Katniss brought me out here to tell me to stop trying, in case last week's argument didn't stick.

I watch as Katniss slides her fingers over the surface of the stone underneath us. For once, our hands are the same. Dirt, not soot, lies trapped under our fingernails. We're not so different, even though the social ladder would say otherwise. If I were to bring Katniss into my world, into the world of the bakery and town, and take care of her like I've always dreamed, she wouldn't have to hunt in the woods anymore. She'd never had dirt under her fingernails again. But that isn't her, and I can no more force my way into her life than I could ask her to change herself to fit into mine. I love her too much to change her. And I'm now learning that asking for a role is asking too much.

"Funny, I need all those things, too," I say, though really, it's not funny at all. Katniss makes an odd sort of face, not a scowl, more like she's frustrated. She shouldn't be. I get what she's trying to tell me. No need for her to stress anymore.

I should be breaking down now, right? Crying and sniveling with heartbreak? Instead, I feel empty, like all my love and hope has been suctioned out with only a shell left behind. I need to leave, but unfortunately, I need Katniss to tell me how to get home. This is turning out to be my worst strategy yet.

I hastily stand up and throw on my jacket. I forget my new bruise for a moment and wince when I accidently bump it on my bag. Katniss stares up at me from the ground, her eyes wide and confused. Can't this girl take a hint? I know I can. "You're probably glad I won't be able to walk you home from school anymore, huh? With school ending?" I chuckle, but there's no humor in it. There's yet another thing I can say goodbye to.

Katniss pushes her hair behind one ear and then the other. The _hair_. I never got to touch the hair. Not really. Not a run-my-fingers-through-it kind of touch.

"No, I guess you won't," she says as she stands up slowly, unlike the way I got up. I'm about to offer to take her bag for her, but what's the point? If it didn't happen before, it's not happening now.

"I'll see you in the bakery once in a while though, right?" I say, feeling like I'm really reaching with this seemingly innocent inquiry. She has to give me that much, right? Everyone goes to the bakery at some point. Then again, do I even want to see her anymore?

"Sure," she murmurs in response.

Well great. I've got so much to look forward to. Now that that's all squared away, why don't we go home so I can be miserable in my bedroom for the next decade or so? I trudge downhill in what I think is the right direction. I know walking into the valley would be wrong, so I have one in three shot of being right.

"Or maybe…"

I whip around toward the voice. Katniss stands at the top of the hill on the rock where I left her. "Maybe, what?" I snap. What's left that she can take away?

As I watch Katniss closely as she steps downward where I am, I understand what she means when she said I walked loudly. Katniss' steps blend with the rush of the wind and the chirps of the bugs. Her stealth is extraordinary, and I feel that much worse that she's going home with her knapsack filled a quarter of the way. When she pauses she's still up the hill a little bit, so despite our height difference, we're at eye level. It's the kind of distance where if I had any hope left in my body, I'd probably try to kiss her.

"Maybe," she begins hesitantly, her forehead wrinkling, "we could still go on walks. Occasionally." Her eyes are as timid as her voice as she looks at me for approval.

_Walks?_ Quick, who else takes her on walks? Other than Prim or the goat? Hawthorne? Yeah, I suppose they _walk_ together when he and Katniss hunt, but they don't get together for the sole purpose of walking and enjoying one another's company. So, what would that make me? What role is that? For god's sake, does it really matter?

And goddammit, emotions are swift. Hope and excitement run through me with gusto. My stomach bottoms out and every muscle in my body tingles and twinges. It's with a great deal of effort that I'm able to smooth out my voice when I speak. "I'd like that," I utter. It doesn't help to answer any of my questions, but I'm not about to jinx this.

The crease in Katniss' forehead smoothes out. She doesn't smile, but she isn't scowling either, which might be the best I can hope for. "We should be getting back," she announces. "Prim is probably home by now."

"Uh…okay," I mumble. So much for being smooth.

Katniss steps around me, taking the lead. And I'm pleased to see that I at least was headed in the right direction. This time when I trail her, the surroundings hold no interest to me. My mind buzzes with questions and answers I know I shouldn't expect, but my poor heart is too stupid to know better.

Suddenly, Katniss flips around so quickly I almost run right into her. "Oh, and this should go without saying, but this…" Katniss waves her bow in a small circle gesture. "Didn't happen," she says seriously. Then she turns and slinks off again.

Katniss shouldn't say those kinds of things to me because I'm liable to think I made this whole excursion up. And there's so much I don't know. Does she only means walks through the Seam? Does she only mean walks with Prim? Has she given up on her notion of exiling love from her life? That's something I should really find out.

I'll wait for the answers. I'm patient enough for that. I know it's imperfect and I could be setting myself up for some life-altering pain. But all that matters is this…this is Katniss letting me into her life.


	10. Chapter 10

A/N: It's been a long wait. Have a present! Readers will receive a bag a kettle corn to share with your sweetheart.

In other news, I've been hard at work helping to run The Pearl Awards – a Hunger Games fanart and fanfiction awards. Nominees are posted and dying to be read. Winners will be chosen by popular vote. Check out my profile for linkage.

You may or may not have noticed my penname changed. It was KenoshaChick for a good six years and while it was a loyal pseudonym, it was time for us to part ways. My new penname and twitter handle: **holymfwickee**_._ If you would like to know the story behind the name, you can ask, if you figure it out, you're awesome. But really, it's not that interesting a story. ;)

***Rated M for language. Don't blame me. Blame Rilee.* **

Reviews are always appreciated. Enjoy.

**Chapter 10:**

It's too bad History class didn't have partnered projects. Maybe luck will strike and we'll have a science class together next term. There's always partnered projects in science. Then, not only would we spend time together, there's no way she could get out of it. Heh.

So, maybe the park? I could take along a soccer ball and maybe challenge her to a match. After failing in archery I need to prove my athletic prowess. I doubt she watched the wrestling matches last fall when I came in second to Rilee. But would she be comfortable at the park in town? Everyone would see us. I would love for them to see us.

"Peeta, come on! Get moving!" Rilee orders from the opposite end of our piddly backyard garden. Mom has us do this every spring. We plant beans, radishes, cabbage, and a few pumpkins and hope something grows. The soil isn't exactly full of nutrients. Plus, the house casts a shadow on the backyard after twelve noon. But still, at the end of every school year since I was four Mom instructs us to turn out the soil so she can plant her little seeds and bulbs in crooked rows. And for the first time, Rilee is weirdly enthusiastic about the chore. Actually, it's the first time he's been enthused about a chore_ ever_. It's quickly becoming a pain in my ass.

"You know, Mom isn't here. You don't have to suck up," I protest, scooping up some crumbly soil with a shovel and dumping it into a wheelbarrow. Where the castaway dirt will go, I can't say. My guess is it will make new bedding for the pigs to roll around in. I better not end up being the one to have to push the wheelbarrow all the way to the bakery.

"I would like to be done before my shift at the bakery. I don't want to do this tomorrow on my day off," Rilee gripes.

_But doing it on my day off is just fine. _It's true that we do have more free time during the summer than we do during school. No additional days off, but all the time we normally devote to school is now open. However, Mom does her best to find us chores. Painting the front façade of the bakery, hemming the pigpen, cleaning the house, and currently, aerating the soil of our backyard.

"What's going on tomorrow?" I ask absently while leaning all my weight onto the handle of my shovel. I come up with a something of a small boulder. We're going to need the dynamite they use in the mines to clean up this yard. "Plans with Kinnian?" The rock smacks against the side of the wheelbarrow when I toss it in. The sound of digging from Rilee's end of the yard comes to a peculiar halt. I look over at my older brother. He stands motionless, staring at the blade end of his shovel wedged a couple inches into the ground. "Rilee?"

Suddenly, Rilee straightens up. His eyes bounce back and forth across the length of the yard. They zero on me. "Your rows look like shit. For all that drawing you do you can't make a straight line?" he says harshly.

I roll my eyes. It's not as if the ability to draw a straight line holds much weight when you're sketching the human form. And keeping the dirt piles perfectly straight isn't important at this point of the job anyway. Rilee returns to the dried out hunk of earth he's trying to bust through. I don't care enough about this garden to defend myself. Ignoring him, I pick up my discarded t-shirt and wipe the sweat off the back of my neck. I've got more interesting things to mull over. Like what Katniss and I are going to do on our date today.

To be fair, _date_ might be a stretch, but I can't help feeling something has shifted between Katniss and me. I mean, what do you call what we've been doing for the past two months? Hanging out? Getting acquainted? My parents might call it "courting". And as antiquated as it may be, I think it might be an appropriate term. Dating is understood to be a mutual endeavor, right? Courting can be completely one-sided. In this instance, the side was all me.

Well, things are different now. I'm not going to have to chase Katniss down. I don't have to trick her. She said she wanted to spend time with me. She also modified that statement by saying _occasionally_. Not the most concrete of specifications, but it's a huge improvement from what it was originally, which was never. _Occasionally_ holds so much promise.

That's why it is vitally important to think of something great for us to do together—that is, great by District Twelve standards. Shopping is often popular with girls; however, I'm broke so it would have to be strictly window shopping. The park and the soccer field would be perfect with the sunny weather, but I'm not convinced Katniss would be comfortable in town, even if it was just to take a walk. As far as the Seam goes, I think we've hit every hot spot there is. The only thing left is the mines and the slag heap.

I've heard some rumors about the slag heap. They can't be true. I mean, it's a _slag heap_.

Very little would compare to escaping the district and spending an afternoon in the woods anyway. I would be happy to relive that experience, but I'm hesitant to suggest it because there's nothing I can do to make it special for Katniss. She's the expert. She'll always be the one leading me around and protecting me from bears. What am I supposed to do? Impress her with a picnic of stale bread and rock-hard cookies? Not likely.

I've been itching to get out there again with a bulk of a paper and some charcoals. Drawing isn't much of a joint activity. Not unless someone is acting as the subject. Katniss has been the subject of my drawings numerous times, but the one time she was aware of it, it kind of weirded her out. I wonder if she likes to read because—

"Peeta!" Rilee shouts, interrupting my promising train of thought. "We're never going to finish if you keep on daydreaming."

_Daydreaming? I'm developing strategies here. This is much more important than whether or not Mom is able to plant her sickly radish bulbs._

I don't get why he's getting so bent out of shape about this garden. "Relax, Rilee," I say. Instead of taking my advice, he starts slamming the blade of his shovel into the large, dried out hunk of dirt he's been working on for ten minutes. Maybe he should try an axe. Finally, he lifts up the shovel as high as he can, and brings it down with a grunt. Nothing. He's fighting a losing battle. No amount of water is going to make that soil usable. Aggravated and red-faced, Rilee picks up the dirt clod and pitches it into the wheelbarrow. He hits the mark, but the weight of the dirt and the velocity of his throw sends the wheelbarrow tumbling on its side, spilling the spoils of a couple hours of work.

"GODDAMMIT!" Rilee hollers, throwing his shovel to the ground. It lands with a dull thud. He crouches down on his heels; his face resting in his dirty hands. The redness spreads from his face down into his chest, the same way it would when he'd skin a knee or jam his finger when we were kids. Rilee hates crying in front of people, so he holds it all in, turning as bright red as a tomato. I've never seen him cry.

Consequently, I don't know what to do in this situation. I can take on my asshole brother no problem, but I'm at a loss with this…emotional version.

Quietly, I prop my shovel against chain-link fence that separates our yard from the neighbor's. "Rilee?" I question, carefully keeping my voice calm. "Something wrong?"

Rilee drops his hands, looking defeated. The dirt from his hands mixed with the sweat on his face, leaving smudges all over his cheeks and brow line. Makes him appear like a guy coming home after a day in the mines. Mom would hate it. "I'm no fucking good at this," he mutters.

Huh. Now, this is a facet to Rilee's personality I haven't seen in some time. My brother has a reputation for being lazy, and he is, but he's also prone to giving up on things if he's not perfect right away. Take baking for example. I'm not the only one Dad taught all his secret frosting methods to. He instructed all three of us. Miche had the patience, but not the hand. Rilee might have had the hand, but none of the patience. He refused to put in the time to practice the techniques, so after only a few weeks of instruction, he gave up frosting and has since been assigned to bread duty. I'd say the same thing is happening with the gardening, but this isn't anything of significance. It's just a chore.

"Don't worry. Mom's no good at it either. She won't blame you if her pumpkins don't grow."

Rilee cracks a smile and chuckles. He relaxes his heels and falls back into the dirt. I pick up a couple of tumblers of water we brought out with us. I hand one to Rilee and the take a long gulp from the other. Rilee takes one drink. Then he pours the rest of the contents over his head. Trails of dirt trickle down his face, neck, and shoulders. I try to remember the last time I saw Rilee so pathetic and grimy. The anecdote about him and Kinnian jumping through mud puddles in the streets comes to mind.

_Kinnian._

When was the last time I saw Kinnian? Not since the festival. To be honest, I haven't been actively searching for her. I've been spending my week hoping Katniss would stop by the bakery. She didn't, by the way. But I'm sure Rilee would have loved to rub his new and happy relationship in my face, unless it's not all that new and happy.

"What's Kinnian been up to?" I ask casually over the brim of my cup.

"I don't know," Rilee replies quietly.

_He doesn't know? Kinnian is the so-called girl of his dreams and he doesn't know? _

"You two were disgustingly cute when I left you at the festival."

"I don't want to talk about it," he says tersely. He scoops up a handful of soil and sifts it through his fingers.

I sigh, but it comes out more like a groan. Normally, I don't push Rilee when it comes to personal stuff because he has no interest in sharing. Also, normally, I don't care. However, he did reach out to me when I was in a crappy mood last week by inviting me to the festival, albeit with a personal agenda in mind, but he did _try_. As it is, Rilee exhibits all the signs of a broken heart: sullenness, isolation, prone to anger, and otherwise cranky. I know the feeling. "Who else are you going to talk to?" I implore. It's not like he's got any friends. Come to think of it, neither do I. Don't let it ever be said the Mellark brothers do anything halfway.

He exhales as I settle down near him. I sit on the grass instead of the dirt. "Everything was fine between Kinni and me," Rilee explains. This part of the story I'm already well aware of. "It was going really well, but Gus was there. At the party," he mumbles at the end. The annual post-festival party that only seniors are officially invited to, where there's plenty of underage drinking, and the attendees are the people you've been on the skids with for the past month. What could go wrong? Idiot.

"And you drank too much and got into a fight," I guess.

Rilee's blonde eyebrows, which are nearly black with the layer of dirt mixed in, shoot up into his hairline. "How'd you know?"

"Uh, we live together. Wednesday morning you woke up puking with a bruise on your cheek. I put two and two together." The puking part didn't surprise me. The hangover was practically a given. I suspected a fight when I saw the bruise on his cheekbone and expected to hear some gossip about the party the following day at school, but didn't notice anything to do with my brother. My eavesdropping might not have been up to par with my eavesdropping attempts of weeks prior. On that last day of school I was still riding the high of my hunting adventure with Katniss.

Rilee's shoulders sag with distinct regret. He rubs at the spot on his cheek where the bruise was. There's only a ghost of it now. My poor, stupid brother.

"So, Kinnian was upset?" I ask.

"Upset isn't even the beginning of it. The last thing she wanted after breaking up with Gus was more drama," Rilee exclaims. He whips a handful of dirt away. Little rocks make _tinkling_ sounds when they make contact with the fence, and a cloud of dried-out dust floats from his hand like a puff of smoke. "I didn't mean to fight with him, but when I overheard him saying shit about Kinni to this whole group of people—people who are supposed to be her friends—I lost it."

Just when I think there's nothing redeeming about my brother, he has to go and defend a girl's honor. When I would overhear people talking about Katniss I wanted to do exactly what Rilee did. How can I fault him for acting on impulses I've felt myself? In a strange way, I'm jealous he got to defend his girl. However, I'm not jealous of the status of Rilee's relationship right now. "I get it," I assure him.

Rilee nods sadly. He picks at a clump of dirt that sucked up some of the water he poured over his head. It's barely softer than the dirt around it and completely different from the springy soil in the woods that grows plentiful with ferns and plant life. This lot has little chance of becoming mud let alone a garden.

"I didn't even get a chance to…to ask her to be my girlfriend," he says, sounding as miserable as he looks.

"Did you at least get in a good shot at Gusset?" I ask, half as a joke. The other half of me hopes it's true. Gusset deserves it. Rilee smirks, but doesn't answer. It couldn't have been too bad or we'd have heard from Grace or her parents. "Man, I'm sorry," I say with sincerity, leaning my elbows forward onto my folded legs. "You know, Kinnian knows you better than any other girl you've dated. She probably expects you to be a jackass." This gets Rilee smiling for real, ironically enough. "So, what are you going to do?"

He stands, not bothering to dust the filth from his shorts. "I was going to show her this tomorrow." Rilee gestures to the sad, empty garden. "Provided we finish."

"You're going to show her a dirt pit?" I ask skeptically. And he made fun of my umbrella idea?

"Kinni loves gardens. I thought we could plant something together."

If he really wanted to impress her with nature he'd take her into the woods, but it is thoughtful. He's sharing her interests. This kid has got it bad. So naturally, I have to give him a hard time. Brothers and all. "Rilee, that's just…adorable."

Rilee kicks some dirt at me. I raise my hands to form a feeble shield. "Shut up," he gripes, but there's little venom in it. Nonetheless, I grab the shovel he threw on the ground and make a jab for his legs. Rilee easily jumps aside to clear my reach.

"It's a good idea," I tell him, using the shovel to get me on my feet. Rilee steps forward to take it from me and evade another attack.

"Plus, I was hoping to get on her dad's good side."

"Kendrick Klee doesn't approve of you dating his daughter?" I laugh. Rilee would have that kind of luck.

He starts digging where he left off. "If Kinni told him about the party he definitely won't." It's especially unlucky if that's the case because our family has always been on decent terms with the Klee's. Especially when a bride demands the flowers on her cake be real and we have to purchase a few bouquet's worth from them. "But it's not even about that," Rilee continues. "I've heard him talk about taking on an apprentice."

"You want to apprentice with the town florist?"

Rilee stops shoveling; his face uncharacteristically serious. "He does more than just flowers. Besides, Kinni is already trained to do that. This job is about landscaping and whatever."

"And whatever? He's going to be so excited to have you work for him," I scoff, going to the fallen wheelbarrow and righting it. This job might not be a good idea. Gardening equipment seems to cause Rilee a lot of stress.

"I have to do something," Rilee says impatiently, planting the shovel into the ground. "I can't stay with the bakery. You and Miche have been groomed to take it over. There's no denying that."

I want to disagree with him, but can't. Miche and I have received more training than Rilee. More is expected of us. Dad would never toss Rilee out though. He'd say that the business is a _family_ business to which all of his sons are entitled. Rilee can't do the fancy cakes like Miche and I but that's hardly where the bulk of our profits comes from. And Rilee, being the schemer he is, could easily take advantage of Dad's generosity and enjoy a relatively easy route for his life. It's what I always expected him to do. Hell, it's what my parents expected him to do. And yet, Rilee's not living up to any of our expectations, which could be, oddly enough, a good thing. Was it Kinnian who drove him to change? Even if she is the only reason, why question it? "There's always the mines," I remind him.

"Very funny," Rilee deadpans. Because to us, the idea of working in the mines, is absurd. As much as I may disagree with the Capitol, as much as I hate the divide in the classes, am I going to give up my family's legacy to join in with the miners? The answer to that is obvious.

"It doesn't matter," Rilee laments. "I'm no good at this. And Kinni hates me."

I sigh in annoyance. The self-pity wears on me. "Kinnian likes you. You have to at least apologize before you give up," I say straight out. "And if you explain to her dad that you were defending his daughter, he'll understand. As long as you also say you went about it the wrong way."

"Yeah. Maybe." Rilee shrugs, unconvinced.

I yank on the planted shovel and chuck it at him. Rilee flinches but manages to catch the thing. "And we have a couple hours until your shift. We can get this place ready for your big romantic gesture and convince Kendrick Klee that you'd make a good apprentice. Because frankly, I can't handle working with you in the bakery for the rest of our lives." I stomp over to my side of the yard and get to work returning the spilled rocks and dirt into the wheelbarrow.

Seconds pass by. I focus on the work. Eventually, the rough sound of metal hitting dirt accompanies me.

"Me neither," Rilee says. And never has sibling rivalry every made me smile like this.

We work at a swift pace for the rest of the morning and well past lunch. We make some good headway on the garden, though we may have moved enough rocks to make our own slag heap. The soil is more gray and dusty than black and healthy, but it's as good as it's going to get. We'll just have to rely on God and nature to make something grow. Or maybe Kinnian will work some kind of magic to stave off the powers of my mom's black thumb.

By the end of it my shoulders are acutely sore. It'll be all the worse tomorrow. It's not that I'm weak, but my muscles aren't accustomed to these specific motions. I want nothing more than a hot shower. Unfortunately, Rilee uses up the hot water during his mad dash to get clean before work. He leaves a ring of muck in the tub for me to clean up.

It's decided. Kinnian and the Klee's can have him.

Despite Rilee's rough start with Kinnian, I have confidence that it will work out. Rilee's really trying to make up and I know Kinnian cares about him—that much is obvious. I went through plenty more to get in Katniss' good graces and I didn't know for sure if she even liked me during the process. My brother will be fine. And hey, I like Kinni. She'll make a good sister, if only because she makes Rilee slightly more bearable.

When I'm finally clean, I dress in a casual t-shirt and shorts that only have a few holes. Mom never put in much work in repairing our summer clothes. I glean the kitchen for anything edible. I could stand for a nap, but because of all the time I spent with Rilee, I've very little time until my date. Walk. Clandestine meeting. Whatever.

I scarf down a strip of venison jerky and a couple slices of stale sesame semolina. With an apple hanging out of my mouth, I rush upstairs hoping a brilliant date idea will come to me. In the length of time it takes me to walk from the kitchen to my bedroom, inspiration does not strike. Running short on time, I go with my gut and grab a pack of papers I use for sketching and a small wooden box that holds my charcoals. Maybe Katniss has an appreciation for art and drawing that I don't know about. You never know. I stuff it all in my school bag, the one with the rip in it from last week. I can't ask Mom to fix it because she'll ask how I got it. Besides, I'm kind of fond of that rip. I take only a few more minutes to tie my shoes and lock the back door before I head out.

The only reason I don't break into a sprint down the sidewalk is that I don't want to work up a sweat again after I just took a shower. With Katniss, I know it's best to keep my expectations low, but there's no sense in giving the girl a reason not to get close to me.

The square already shows signs of the lazy summer routine. There are very few kids. Most are probably at home or at the park. The adults are stress-free and moving slower. They don't have to rush their kids home to do homework. And everyone lingers outside the shops for a bit longer than usual; happy to be standing in the sunshine. When I pass by the Klee's floral shop, I pause, trying to inconspicuously peek through the window. Kinnian sits at the counter, looking bored. I guess she's already met with her bleak future of unending work. Or maybe she misses my brother. Well, hopefully by tomorrow she'll feel better about the state of the world.

I slink past the window without being noticed. After a few steps I wonder if I should have stopped to pick up a flower or two for Katniss. If she were any other girl I wouldn't have given it a second thought. Katniss has always been so sensitive about receiving gifts. After Rilee's unveiling of his big romantic gesture it seems somewhat lame to show up with nothing.

I'm still debating as I walk by the Meadow. It's too late to go back to the florist, but that doesn't stop me from obsessing over it. The grass of the meadow looks much more lush and green. I'm sorry to see nothing has flowered yet, nothing except dandelions. I pluck one. It doesn't smell good and it's not very pretty. But the brightness of the yellow is striking. And you can't deny it's extremely resilient. Hm. I pluck a few more and tuck them in the side of my bag so only the heads are poking out.

When I'm at last standing in front of the Everdeen's house, I need to take a steadying breath. This will be a new phase for us. Our first official date. Not that I would be stupid enough to point that out to Katniss. The last thing she needs is for me to start throwing around words like "date" or "boyfriend". I take one more breath to batten down my excitement. Lady snoozes in the mid-afternoon sun. The sound of the gate squeaking open startles her. She bleats at me, sounding impressively annoyed for a goat. She eyes the dandelions sticking out of my bag, or just my bag, or my shirt. Goats eat everything.

After a few brisk knocks to the crooked front door, Katniss answers. She's dressed in the same clothing she wears to school, except her pants are rolled up on account of the heat. Her feet are bare. She's got a dishtowel in hand and—

And holy shit she's wearing her hair down. It drifts to her waist in soft, loose waves. My mouth falls open. I blink a couple times to make sure it's real. It is.

"What are you doing here?"

"Huh?" I mumble, slack jawed. _Did she say something?_

"What are you doing here?" Katniss says with such distaste it cuts through the haze. My jaw shuts with a snap that rattles my teeth.

"I…uh…," I fumble ineloquently. _Why do I need to explain this? Why does she look so confused? _

"Peeta!"

Before I can even react to hearing the sound of my name being called a little blonde blur pushes by Katniss and wraps herself around my waist."Oof!" I grunt dramatically. The blur giggles. Now there is a reaction I was hoping for. "Hey Prim."

"I didn't know you were visiting today!" Prim exclaims.

"You didn't?" I look to Katniss for an explanation. She hides most of her face in the curtain of her hair.

Prim steps back and takes my hand. "Come in! We were cleaning fish."

"Cleaning what?" I ask as I'm yanked through the threshold. Sure enough the smell of spring is replaced with the stench of fish. The dining table, which I remember being adorned with wildflowers the last time I was here, is covered with newspaper and various fish parts. Mrs. Everdeen sits there as well with a paring knife in hand and a curious expression. I'd rather share eye contact with the beady dead fish eyes than stare her down.

"It's kind of stinky, but they taste good." Prim smiles. "And we sell the heads to Greasy Sae."

_You do _what_ with the heads?_ I ignore the impulse to ask that aloud. Instead, I turn back to Katniss who's standing in front of the open door. "Get a good haul today?" I ask casually.

"Good enough," Katniss replies in a clipped tone. "You know my mother." She gestures with the dishtowel.

_Okay. Don't panic._ My last encounter with Katniss' mother didn't go great, but I know how to talk to parents. Of course, no other mothers in Twelve have the history with my dad that Mrs. Everdeen does. "Hello, Mrs. Everdeen." My voice only squeaks a little. I clear my throat. "How are you?"

Mrs. Everdeen sets the knife aside, thankfully. She stands up, wiping her hands repeatedly on an apron. "I'm well. How's the bakery?"

It's interesting that she would ask about the bakery and not me. I'd prefer not think about the possible subtext. "The bakery is doing fine."

"And your family?"

"Fine as well," I reply vaguely. Polite without saying too much. That's the key to talking to parents.

"Good to hear," Mrs. Everdeen says coolly. She sits down at the table and goes about cleaning up the…uh…the fish guts. Katniss scurries to the table to help her. Both of them avert their attention from me like they'd rather pretend I'm not here at all.

Thankfully, Prim steps in. "Peeta, would you like to give Lady a treat?" she suggests. Her enthusiasm has curtailed noticeably from what it was.

"Sure. Glad to." I nod. Might as well stick with the only Everdeen who is happy to see me.

Prim dashes to the tall pantry cupboard and removes a small object wrapped in a white handkerchief. Attempting to scavenge some points for chivalry, I open the front door for her and close it once we're both outside. Once free, I release a huge breath. How could things go so wrong so quickly? Katniss was completely shocked to see me standing at her doorstep, which doesn't make any sense.

Lady abruptly stands up with she sees Prim. Prim hides the handkerchief behind her back as she pets Lady a few times. I sidle up next to Prim, having a go at petting Lady. She sniffs my hand looking for food. She snorts when she doesn't find anything, but she lets me pat her head all the same.

Prim opens up the handkerchief. There's a smattering of raisins inside. I take one and it's between my fingers for about two seconds before Lady gobbles it up. "I pick them out of my slices of bread. I know I'm supposed to eat them, but I just don't like raisins. And Lady loves them," Prim explains. Lady practically climbs Prim with impatience for more treats.

I've really missed Prim, and not only for her wingman skills. When I'm around her everything feel effortless. I have that feeling with Katniss, too, but its fewer and far between.

"I didn't see you last week," Prim says, offering Lady another raisin. I worry Prim's about to lose a finger.

"I saw you. You had more flowers than any other girl at the festival."

"Katniss won most of them, but I told her to stop because it wasn't fair. Her aim is too good. There wouldn't have been any flowers left for anyone else." We share a chuckle at that. Lady merely wants more raisins.

"So, Katniss didn't say anything about me coming over?" I ask delicately. I doubt Katniss said anything about our visit to the woods. She told me to pretend that it never happened. But what happened to the _occasionally?_ The one with all the promise?

Prim shakes her head and then the handkerchief, trying to prove to Lady that all the raisins are gone. Lady just tries to eat the handkerchief. "Did you make plans?" Prim asks.

"Kind of," I confess. "I mean, she said we could…" Go on walks. I did not mistake her words to mean something else. Katniss always says what she means. "And she knew…" She knew my work schedule. That's why I came around three. We've been following the same pattern for two months and suddenly she's all surprised at my presence?

Prim peers up at me curiously, trying to make sense of my sputtering. She looks alarmingly like her mother. Disappointed there's no more food Lady spins in a circle once before laying down.

In my mind, this was all very clear. Katniss and I would keep doing what we were doing. I even called it a date. Okay, to be perfectly honest it's not a real date because I never officially asked her, but I've never done that. _Should_ I have done that? I mean, usually I'd say it's a crappy move to assume a girl will immediately make time for you without notice, but I'm not without reason here. This is our pattern. And I believed she wanted me in her life based on what she said.

What if I'm way off? Her actions, her choice of words apparently had less significance than what I gave them. What was I thinking making assumptions? I should know better by now.

The front door of the house creaks open. Katniss steps outside, still barefoot. Prim offers me a sympathetic look. Then she makes herself scarce. The girl is phenomenally intuitive. Then again, it may not take a lot of intuition to recognize what a bonehead I am. Katniss glances at her sister as she walks by. When we're alone she saunters up beside me if only so we can keep our voices low. The windows are open to the house after all.

"What's going on?" she asks.

_I've been wondering that myself._ "I thought we were hanging out today," I blurt out. I have to know if this was all in my head. There are times when I love the mysterious side of Katniss, but all this makes me crazy.

Katniss stares down between our feet. Not at all encouraging.

"Tuesday is my only day off," I remind her, just in case that fact hasn't sunk in yet.

Her hair, unbound, shifts with the breeze, but her eyes don't move. Which is, frankly, far worse than when Katniss scowls at me. Does this mean she doesn't want to see me at all? Time to go for broke. "Would you like to go for a walk?" I suggest…beg…whatever.

"I'm busy," she insists.

"I don't mind staying here."

"I don't think that's a good idea," Katniss states, finally looking up at me. I don't really think it's a good idea either—hanging out with Mrs. Everdeen—but I have to try all my options.

I hope while I hold Katniss' gaze I'll find something in her eyes to reassure me. Regret or desire or something that makes me believe I didn't make a mistake in coming here. If anything, there's frustration forming in tight wrinkles between her eyebrows. But what does that amount to? She's annoyed that I showed up? Did she think I wouldn't? Did she _hope_ I wouldn't?

"Look, I'm an idiot. When you said we could go for walks once in a while, I thought that meant…" _I thought it meant you wanted to see me._ "Well I assumed wrong," I say in a rush. I need to leave. I can't take this disappointment over and over again. Low expectations are one thing, but come on, no one asks for rejection like this. I awkwardly run my hand down the strap of my bag. My hand meets with the dandelions I picked and protected from Lady, which are now limp and squishy. I see why no one gives them as gifts. "Anyway, these are for you." I hold the dandelions out to her. She'll probably give them to Prim. Prim will like the color.

I hold my arm out for an inordinate length of time. This leads me to think Katniss is offended by the offering, either because it's no good or because we made rules about gift-giving; however, her face says neither of those things. In fact, it reveals nothing. She's utterly still; her face completely blank; the frustration has been smoothed away from her eyes. I can't be sure she's breathing. "Katniss?" I prompt, leaning forward.

As if broken from a trance, the life comes back to Katniss' eyes. She takes the flowers—weeds—wordlessly.

"I'll see you around," I say, my voice a bit rough. My stomach churns with disappointment. My chest tightens with embarrassment. I do my best not to think as I turn to leave; struck by the harsh pointlessness of it all. My efforts are unwanted and useless. No amount of grand gestures will change the fact that she doesn't have feelings for me.

"Wait."

A breathy, little voice stops me at the gate. Not Prim. Katniss. I look back, despite the disappointment burning through my blood.

Katniss clutches the dandelions tightly in her fist, squeezing the minimal amount of life left out of them. "Let me get my shoes." She makes a break for the house before I can say anything. And maybe that's good, because the way I'm feeling I'm either going scream or be struck mute, but there definitely won't be anything resembling language spewing forth any time soon.

When Katniss returns, she's wearing boots with her pants tucked into them. And we walk. Through the gate. Down the road. The Meadow comes into view. We don't look at one another. There's no acknowledgement of a goddamn thing. Her hair teases the skin of my arm when the wind catches it, but all I can think is: _dandelions._ _Dandelions? Holy shit, I'm going to have to tell the Klee's about this._

"Where are we going?" Katniss asks with a monotone voice.

The jarring segue back to normal conversation has a weird affect on my speaking skills. It pretty much destroys my mental filter. "I was hoping we could go to the woods again. But you just got back from hunting, didn't you?" I grumble bitingly. I don't want to be upset with Katniss during what is supposed to be a date. This isn't the first time I've gone through the emotional wringer with Katniss, but I'm having a hard time recovering from her cold attitude. Was everything she said last week meaningless? Who does she think she is messing with my emotions like that? Even as friends that shit is not okay.

Katniss nods in answer to my question.

"You probably don't want to go back." I guess that's it then. There's nowhere for us to go. We should turn back before it gets worse or I say something I really regret.

Suddenly, Katniss comes to a halt. She stares off over the Meadow, toward the fence. Her eyes focus like she's thinking…or hunting. Her eyes whip back to mine. "Would you like to see the lake?" she asks in an unexpected whisper that makes all my grumblings sound boorish and rude, which they are.

I swallow the lump in my throat. After so many mixed signals, her openness is overwhelming. "Sure," I reply, my voice raspy and embarrassing.

Katniss leads us on through the Meadow. We don't say anything as we listen for electricity at the fence before we shimmy under it. I made it without ripping my bag or ruining my good clothes by the way. She rattles off something about being prepared when she stops to retrieve a concealed hunting knife. Other than that, we're stubbornly silent. There's no ruminating on the beauty of the woods or the scent of the clean air. Instead, I'm smothered by annoying static, like the snow on the television screen that prevents the picture from being clear. I can't appreciate leaving Twelve or being with Katniss until she gives me an explanation for her actions. "Did you mean what you said?" I demand.

Katniss doesn't slow her pace even a half step. If anything, she speeds up a little. "What did I say?" she responds.

_Playing Hard to Get does not become you, Katniss._ I'm not going to let her pretend last week didn't happen. I sprint to catch up with her stride, getting whipped in the shins by prickly bushes in the process. "When you said you'd be okay with spending time together? Did you mean it?"

She moves her hand to the handle of her knife that's tucked in her belt—not a reassuring gesture. "Yes," she answers to my immediate surprise.

"Then why the brush off at your house?" I challenge.

"I've told you once already," she snaps.

_You did no such thing! _I think. And then I trip over a snake hole. Why did I think the forest was so great? "Well, I missed it. So if you don't mind, could you mention it again?" I shout. I hope she wasn't planning on doing anymore hunting today. All the animals in a mile radius are surely scared off.

Katniss stops midstride; her fingers flex around the handle of her knife. There's a light sheen of sweat along her hairline and her cheeks are flushed. And don't forget the hair. She'd be…well, sexy if we weren't in the middle of an argument. Goddamn hormonal brain. That is the last thing I should be thinking about right now.

"You confuse me," Katniss huffs.

I take a step backward and bump my head against a tree branch. Stupid nature.

Katniss first said those words to me weeks ago when she was questioning my motivation. I explained it by telling her I cared about her. That hasn't changed. If anything, my continued attention should have made my feelings more transparent. However, I do know what it's like to be confused and to become incensed by it. "That makes two of us," I murmur.

Katniss lifts her hand—for a split second I think she might slap me—instead, she touches the side of my head and comes away with a crunchy brown leaf that was caught in my hair. "You're not like other people," she adds. She crumples the leaf and watches the remnants fall to the ground.

How many times have I made that assertion about Katniss? Too many to count. I love how her attitude and her independent ideas make her different, special. What makes me different from the people she knows, other than the general fumbling to move about the woods business?

"Come on. We have to keep going. We don't want to walk back in the dark." Katniss moves forward. I stagger along behind her. And I realize as I walk and trip, that no matter how angry I am at her I'll always follow her, and not because we're in the woods and if I were to wander off I would never be heard from again. Because I want to know where she goes. Because while the fight is happening my stupid brain notices how sexy she is. From a very young age I was convinced I could love her through anything. It's one thing to believe yourself capable of feelings like that. It's another to live it.

The walk continues on as it did before, sans the angst-ridden tunnel vision. While I'm not angry anymore small talk doesn't interest me. Katniss seems content to act as a silent guide through the unending trees. Periodically she points out animal burrows and prickly bushes. My scraped legs thank her.

After an hour passes, the walk has developed into a hike. We've been heading down a very shallow decline, but after constantly stepping around trees and navigating the irregular terrain I can distinctly feel the sweat pooling on my neck and back. And forgive me, but I didn't imagine this date involving pit stains. At one point, Katniss draws her hair over her shoulder and I notice a damp blotch on the back of Katniss' shirt that probably matches mine. At least I know she's human.

"How much further is it?" I ask, hoping my voice doesn't sound whiny.

"About another mile."

"What will that put us at? Like four miles away from Twelve?"

"Around there. Do you think you can make it?" She casts a mischievous glance over her shoulder.

My shoulders are sore from all the shoveling from this morning, sweat is dripping down the side of my face, and my ankle aches from that snake hole I stepped in. "Definitely," I answer.

I approach the hike with renewed energy, walking beside her instead of behind. I have to keep a better eye on the ground in front of me, but I'm rewarded with the occasional quick glance at Katniss. She's very focused on the hike, but there's a moment or two where I catch her glancing at me, too.

The very second I realize how parched I am, the lake comes into view. I expected the forest would thin out and there would be some great dramatic entrance, but it's more like one second there's trees and earth and the next second there's a lake. Branches and leaves obstruct the view. If you didn't know it was there you might walk right into it.

"This way," Katniss murmurs. She grabs my wrist to tug me along the water's edge. My senses are split between concentrating on not falling in and on her little hand around my wrist. She leads us to an enormous pine tree whose trunk leans precariously toward the water yet somehow defies gravity and twists back up toward the sky. The thick roots of the tree jut out from the ground and over the water. Katniss releases my wrist and carefully steps on the roots using the trunk to keep steady. I put my feet exactly where she put hers. The roots act like a staircase that lead to a patch of lush green grass right along the lake's edge that's incredibly soft under my feet. It's like stepping on a springy mattress. Other than a couple saplings and some tall grasses, the view is perfect clear to the other side of the lake.

I was so wrapped up in my fight with Katniss I didn't let myself wonder what an actual lake would look like. I've never seen a body of water outside my bathtub. The water is dark as coal yet shimmering with light reflecting from the sun. Mossy plants grow on the surface near the shore. Although it seems completely placid, small waves roll toward us and lap gently against the bank. And it's so, so quiet. It's no bathtub.

"Wow," I whisper.

Katniss closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. The stress of her life in Twelve, or perhaps the stress I cause her, visibly filters away. Her face softens and I see the real Katniss under the pride and the scowl. When her eyes open she gazes lazily over the water. She seems so relaxed and free. I don't want to look away.

Quietly, Katniss kneels right next to the edge. She dips her hands in. The water comes up clean and clear. "Take a drink. It's fed by a natural spring."

I do precisely as she does, cupping my hands for a drink to soothe my thirst. The water feels cold and incredibly refreshing. And _clean_. The water in Twelve always comes through the pipes in varying shades of gray. When we've had our fill, we simultaneously lean back in the grass to rest. The water sparkles, birds chirp, the wind slowly moves the clouds along above us. I never thought there could be such a perfect moment.

And such a perfect moment deserves to be recorded. I throw off my bag to retrieve my box of charcoals and pad of paper, only slightly crumpled after the long journey. I sit with my legs crossed. Before I begin, I stretch my arms up, arch my back, and twist my torso around a few times to warm up the muscles. I find a stick of hard charcoal that's good for quick sketches and start off getting down the big shapes. The outline of the water, the trees, a few interesting branches. After a couple minutes I realize the perspective is way off and cast the paper aside to try again.

I focus on a smaller area for my second attempt. There's a grouping of birch trees along the water. Their white bark is striking against the dark green and browns of the pines and maples. I should have brought my colored pastels along, too. I'm correcting the proportion of a branch when out of the corner of my eye I notice my tossed out drawing slink away, and not because of the wind. Katniss has come closer, snagging the paper and examining it. I only wish it was a better drawing.

"So, you draw?" Katniss eventually asks.

I smile at the choice of words. They're so Katniss. She doesn't ask about where I learned to draw or what inspires me. The tone of her voice suggests she's curious as to why I picked up such an invaluable skill in the first place. "Yeah," I reply, keeping my eyes flitting between the trees and the paper in my lap.

"What do you draw?"

"Anything. A lot of flowers. You know, practice for the cakes." I sneak a peek at her. She studiously observes the drawing in her hands, looks over the scenery, then back at the drawing. An adorable wrinkle forms between her eyebrows. I wonder if she can see the failed perspective. Most people wouldn't be able to. "Sometimes people," I continue. "I'm fascinated by the trees. There aren't any trees worth drawing in town. Or in Twelve in general." The charcoal starts to get muddied in this sketch so I toss it off for a fresh piece of paper. "Do you draw?"

Katniss trades the first drawing for the new one. "Never."

"Anyone can draw. It just takes practice. Would you like to try?" I hold out the charcoal to her.

Katniss sets down the paper and resituates herself so she's facing the water. "No thank you."

I didn't really expect her to take it. I pull my hand back. "Another time then." I return to sketching the lily pads and the mossy looking stuff that grows in the water. My hand moves swiftly across the page. My eyes stay mostly on the plants. The trick to observational drawing is spending ninety percent of your time looking at the object and the other ten percent looking at the drawing. Staring at the drawing only leads an artist to make assumptions and therefore, mistakes. In fact, the best part of drawing is when I get into a zone. It's hard to explain. I'm so focused the rest of the world tunes out and my hand becomes an extension of my eyes. I never experience that when I'm decorating cakes.

Some movement in my peripheral vision distracts me from my trance. The discarded drawings are floating away with the wind. Also, Katniss is missing. I quickly jump up and whirl around, my heart pounding in my ears. She wouldn't leave me here, would she?

_Ker-plunk! _I hear. I spin toward the sound. A few yards off Katniss leans over the bank, concealed partially behind a tree. I take a deep breath and give my heart a second to recover. I approach her slowly, but don't worry about scaring her. I'm the one who walks loud. "What are you doing?"

Katniss stands up straight with a long length of thin twine in her hands. "Throwing out the fish lines. Since we're here anyway," she explains. I look closer. About every twelve inches or so a thorn is wound into the twists of the rope and on each thorn is a squirming grub.

"You don't leave it in the water all the time?" I ask.

"I don't come here often. It's too far." Katniss swings the twine back and forth. There's a stone tied to the opposite end. It swings like a pendulum a few times before she releases it up and over the water. The stone splashes and disappears beneath the surface.

"Then where'd you get the fish you had today?"

"There's a creek a mile east. This place is best for hunting waterfowl actually," she crouches down a second time and checks the knots tied around a flexible reed. She rubs her hands together under the water to wash away grub guts, I assume. Then she touches the back of her neck slowly. The water drips under the collar of her shirt. Suddenly, she looks up at me. I shove my hands in my pockets and pretend I wasn't staring. "Do you want to learn how to swim?"

I let out a bark of laughter. Katniss doesn't laugh. As a matter of fact, aside from a slight smirk she looks serious. "I can't swim!" I exclaim.

Katniss stands up, water droplets slipping down her throat. "That's why I asked if you'd like to _learn_."

This may be a guess on my part but the bathtub did not leave me prepared for this kind of thing. I already botched the archery thing. If she has to save me from drowning too I'll never be able to show my face in the woods again. "No…I can't."

"Everyone can swim. It just takes practice," she says, reiterating my advice.

"How many times have you tested that theory?" And what if she's a really bad teacher?

"Come on, before the sun gets too low," Katniss beckons.

"It's cold," I argue.

"And deep," Katniss adds.

I lean over the side and stare at the dark water that now seems eerie in its stillness. "This seems like a terrible place to learn. Why don't we try the creek or particularly deep puddle?" I shoot her a questioning glance and…oh my god! She's taking off her clothes! "What are you doing?" I ask in the highest register of my voice while quickly averting my eyes. And I thought seeing her with her hair down was going to be the most shocking thing I saw all day.

"I'm going in. Just a dip. Enough to rinse the sweat off," she says casually, plunking down on the ground to unlace her boots, I suppose.

_Don't look. Don't look. Don't look._ "Won't we sweat when we walk back?"

I feel her walk behind me back to the place we were previously sitting. I slowly look over my shoulder. Okay, so she's not naked. She only removed her top and she had a tank on underneath. I fight the feeling of disappointment. It's less than gentlemanly.

I hear a splash so I rush over to the bank. Katniss is only a foot away and already the water is up to her thighs. She trudges out until it's up to her waist. Then in a delicate swoop of movement she throws her arms over her head and dives under with only a ripple left behind. Just like the rock on the end of the fish line. The wake of her dive hits the bank while I wait for her to emerge. How long can she stay under? A minute? Two minutes? Rilee and I used to have contests to see who could hold their breath the longest. I always lost because he'd poke me in the stomach. Then he'd run off while declaring himself the winner. "Katniss?" I call out, though it's unlikely that she can hear me. Bubbles break along the surface where she dove in. It's been too long. I have to go after her. _But you can't swim, idiot._ That's neither here nor there. I'm not going to let my girl drown!

I've got my shirt over my head and part-way down my arms, when Katniss finally pokes her head up from the water and takes a deep breath. Her hair is slicked away from her flushed face. I bet it's not as flushed as mine. "Don't do that!" I shout at her.

Katniss paddles toward the bank. Her long hair floats around her like grappling vines. "Would you have saved me?" she says, eyeing the shirt that's tangled up in my arms.

I awkwardly peel it down all the way and ball it up between my hands. "I would have tried, but probably drowned just the same."

Katniss smacks the water at me, getting my shoes wet. "Come on, Peeta," she pleads a second time. I wonder if Katniss knows how dangerous dating her is.

With a sigh of reluctance I drop my shirt, slip off both my shoes, and stuff my socks in them. For a moment I consider losing my shorts, too, but think better of it. I mean, Katniss is fully dressed. Something tells me seeing me in my boxers wouldn't go over well.

She floats near the bank amid lily pads while I take a seat on the ground and immerse my feet. Gooseflesh prickles up my legs.

"Just jump in," Katniss instructs.

I nod and with a quick breath I slide off the bank and into the water. "Gah!" I cry out. The underwater floor squishes unpleasantly between my toes, like stepping in pig droppings. "How big are the fish in this lake?" The water laps at the hem of my shorts. My body twitches against the cold temperature.

"Come out a little further and put your head under."

I understand the logic. When all the hot water is used up at home it's best to jump in the cold shower and get it over with. Trying to gradually adjust is more painful, but so is the feel of the soggy stuff under my feet.

Tentatively, I slosh further out. Katniss kicks her feet out and does a backstroke into deeper waters. The drop off in depth is severe and after only a few steps I'm up to my bellybutton, then my ribcage. I suck in a breath. "Far enough," I mutter. The hair on my arms stands on end and water has seeped into every fiber of my pants and underwear, which is a feeling I have never experienced. Katniss confidently treads water a ways off, a smile of anticipation on her lips. Time to get it over with. I inhale as much air as I can, close my eyes, bend my knees, and plunge into the dark and frigid depths. There's an immediate shock to my core from the cold, which makes me forget how freezing my legs are. My hearing is muffled, but the sound of my heart beating is clear and strong. The pressure of the water feels so much different from a mere bathtub, heavier, yet my body feels lighter and buoyant. My lungs begin to ache for oxygen, a sensation I recall from all those breath-holding competitions, so I shoot up through the surface, spitting, coughing, and rubbing water from my eyes.

My vision clears—that is, until a rush of water slams me in the face. When did this lake develop such a rough wake? "Hey!" I yell. Katniss, who was further off when I went under, is standing right in front of me, her hand cupped and in a very conspicuous position. "You're going to regret that." Splashing I can do. That's not something you need to be taught. I slap the water at Katniss. She covers her eyes and darts away. The water churns white around her legs. I chase her into shallower water. She hides in the reeds. She laughs when I trip and flop into the water with a _smack_ that scares a flock of nearby birds. When she swims out so far I can't reach her, I chuck seaweed at her until she dives beneath the surface. She makes me scream when she catches me by the ankle. I only hope the water blocked her hearing enough that she didn't notice.

We never have an actual lesson. I never go in water deeper than my ribcage, but I'm happy to watch her float and dive and perform summersaults.

We climb out less than an hour later; both of us shivering. The sun hangs in the sky; however, it was probably unwise to swim so late in the day. We'll be lucky to be anything less than damp by the time we start hiking back home. Then again, I don't care if I have to walk over an hour in wet shorts. Anything to make Katniss laugh and smile like that.

We lay out in the grass for a while, catching our breath and letting the sun and the heat dry us. Katniss eventually sits up and begins gracefully braiding her hair back. I'm sorry to see her free hair go, but thankful to have finally seen it.

"I don't think I got the hang of this swimming thing yet. I might need some more practice." I chuckle. Or just some more running around and playing with Katniss time. "We should come back."

Katniss hair squelches as she wrings the last of the water out of it. She flips her braid over her shoulder and brings her knees up very close to her chest. "I've never brought anyone here before," she whispers, staring out over the lake.

Even though I'm lying down, my stomach somehow drops out on me. _No one? Not Prim? Not Gale?_ That would mean Katniss is presumably the only person to see this place in seventy-four years. Until today. I sit up and try to catch her eyes. "If I had something this beautiful I wouldn't want to share it either."

"I didn't like coming here. This was a place I've only shared with my father," she confesses, her voice heartbreakingly small.

I can only sigh in response. There's no way I can empathize. I've never experienced a loss as great as she has. "Thank you for showing it to me."

This seems to be the appropriate thing to say. She stretches her legs out and reclines in the grass. I do the same. We watch the clouds for a while. Between the soft ground, the warm sun, and the fresh air I feel like I've been drugged.

Katniss asks me something, but I miss it.

Squinting, I turn my head to the side. Katniss' eyes are wide open, but she's gazing up to the sky. "Hm?" I grunt. I rub my eyes to wipe away the sleepiness.

"Why did you walk with us that first day?" Katniss clarifies.

Oh. _Oh_. There are a few answers to that question. Because I got tired of waiting for you. Because I'm wanted to get to know you. Because I'm in love with you. "Because I didn't work that day." I laugh, but it sounds fake.

Katniss turns her head and looks at me straight on, a confident pose, but her soulful gray eyes betray her. "Peeta." Katniss doesn't say my name often, and she never says it like that—like a plea, like she's desperate.

I've avoided the complete truth when answering this question in the past. I didn't want to scare her away with the seriousness of my feelings. But how can I lie to her when she's lying next to me in her most secret place in the world? She's given up an enormous piece of herself in bringing me here. I need to reciprocate. "Katniss," I begin with a gulp. "I've been watching you for forever." Her face scrunches up and I immediately grasp how wrong that sounds. "I mean, I've been noticing you," I backpedal hastily.

Thankfully, Katniss' face smoothes out for the most part. She's understandably curious, but no longer appalled. "Forever?" she questions.

Why do my words sound so insane when they're repeated back to me? "Yeah, since we were little, like five years old. Since you sang in front of the whole class."

Katniss is impressively still. It's all I can do not to squirm under her gaze like one of those grubs on a hook. "Why?" she whispers.

How can I explain it? There are a million reasons. There is no reason. How do you describe a feeling of simply _knowing_ something is right without any explanation or logic? How do you explain it to a girl like Katniss, who doesn't want love in her life? "When I saw you that day, I just…knew," I babble.

"Knew what?"

"That you were the girl," I say, becoming frustrated with my own inability to explain it. I roll on my side and lean on my elbow. "You were someone I wanted to know and who I wanted to know me. It was intuition or fate or…something. I can no more explain it than I can explain why I decided to talk to you that day in April as opposed to any other."

Katniss slowly blinks; her expression annoyingly impassive. She taps her fingers against her stomach once, twice. "So, you had a crush on me?"

I cough to clear my throat. It sounds like a noise made by the frogs in the lake. I slump onto my back again and sigh. It would have been too easy to simply say I have a crush on her. I pinch the bridge of my nose; rub my thumb and finger over my eyelids. "Yes. I had a crush on you." My arm flops to the ground. "And ever since then I've been waiting for you to notice." It's out there. _Finally_. Katniss knows I care about her, that I've liked her since I was five, and that I've been waiting for over ten years for her to notice I exist. It'd be romantic if it didn't also sound so sad.

Quiet washes over us—that is, as quiet as nature can be. The wind makes the trees rustle and creak. Dragonflies buzz by. Fish splash when they jump from the water. Katniss is an arm's length away and I've never been so afraid to be near her. When she told me about her feelings on relationship and marriage, when she told me about that kiss from Gale, it undoubtedly hurt, but that was before she knew how I felt about her. There was always a chance her opinions could change once she knew my feelings for her. Now that she really, truly knows everything, she could break me.

Finally, Katniss turns and rolls her to side. She tucks one arm under her head and combs the soft grass with her free hand. My stomach erupts with nerves.

"I had a name for you," Katniss says softly. "The boy with the bread."

"What does that mean?"

"When you gave me the burned bread that night behind the bakery, I didn't know your name."

"Oh." I exhale. I thought it might be a term of endearment, like when I call her my girl. The boy with the bread sounds like something Boothe's senile great aunt would call me. I rest my arm over my forehead to shield my disappointment and block my view of her.

"Even though we didn't know one another, we didn't talk in school, after that night I felt like I knew you—like I knew a part of you."

"Which part?" I bark. How my ideal townie life is less than perfect? That my mother is prejudiced and abusive? The part of me that's too cowardly to talk to a girl for a decade?

"That you were…are…good," she fumbles. I slowly lay my arm back down. Katniss stares at a little green winged bug crawling over her hand. When it scrambles to the tip of her pointer finger, it unfolds its wings and flies away. While Katniss isn't looking, I lean on my side, mimicking her pose, and cover her hand with mine. Katniss' eyes flash to our hands, but she doesn't pull away. I stroke her knuckles with my thumb to encourage her. "A goodness that is rare. The kind that risks a beating to help someone he doesn't know. Or gives a little girl cookies as a gift. Or protects a girl's name despite the damage it would do to his own." She pauses, inhaling a shaky breath. "The boy with the bread," Katniss repeats.

_This is about a lot more than bread_, I think.

I can't recall the feeling I had moments ago of being overwhelmed by our closeness, because now I'm convinced that we're much too far apart. My damp clothes rub uncomfortably against my skin as I shift closer, our hands clasped between us. I lean closer still; our noses barely brushing. Her warm breath fans my face. Her eyes flutter, but don't close. I feel dizzy with anticipation, focusing on her parted lips. I press forward. Close my eyes. Without warning, the warmth disappears. Katniss sits up, ripping her hand from mine, drawing her legs to her body, and turning away.

Part of me wants to shake her and tell her not to shut me out. Does she not believe what she just said? If I'm as good as she says then why not let me in?

I hate seeing her like this. Wrapped up in her fears and her convoluted logic. I want to help her and be someone she can turn to, and can't do that by yelling at her or shaking her. No amount of shouting or anger would ever make her change her mind. It was never our arguments that kept her from sending me away week after week. It wasn't even my persistence. It was the moments when I did something different from the brutal people in her life, be it giving a gift without expecting one in return or offering her an umbrella on a sunny day. Those actions led Katniss to trust me. If only she would trust herself.

I sit up and scoot closer, but not close enough to touch. "Katniss," I say like a prayer. "If you really don't want me to, I won't." I'll never do again what I did that day in the meadow. I'm going to be different from the other guys in her life.

I not-so-patiently wait for her response. I'm only met with silence periodically interrupted by the shrill chorus of crickets and frogs.

"Okay," I say with depressing finality. "Let's go home."

I try to get up, but I'm stopped by a hand pressed firmly against my arm. Katniss may be thin, but she's remarkably strong or perhaps I'm remarkably weak under her touch. Her eyes are downcast and squeezed tight. The shake of her head is barely discernable. Cautiously, I move both of my hands to her face, treating her like a frightened animal, and in this case, maybe she is. Gently skimming my hands under her chin, I guide her face up and wait. Her hand clenches and unclenches around my forearm. And then, she opens her eyes, and although I see fear in the depths of her shining eyes, I also see what I was waiting for: permission.

It's hard not to smile a little at that. "It's only me, Katniss," I whisper before I kiss her, and before she kisses me.

* * *

A/N: Thought I'd do this, you know, for fun. A list of the significant OC's in this story:

_Boothe – more affectionately known as Boo Boo, doesn't take being teased very well, Peeta's best friend…er…former best friend _

_Kinnian (Kinni) Klee – florist's daughter, the source of Rilee's affections, lover of mud _

_Gusset (Gus) Fielding – Rilee's arch nemesis and all around douchebag (Rilee's words, not mine) _

_Grace Fielding – girlfriend to Miche Mellark and older sister to Gusset, a poor cook, sweet-natured, decidedly does not want a marriage proposal to come in the form of frosting_

_Miche – not exactly an OC, but the name of the oldest Mellark brother, currently fumbling in his attempts to determine an original way to propose to his girlfriend_

_Rilee – again, not an OC, the middle Mellark brother, not a morning person, currently entangled in a love triangle_


	11. Chapter 11

A/N: For this chapter I've got a fun present for your eyeballs. I posted a link to the image I used as inspiration for the lake scene from chapter 10. Look under **Links** on my profile!

There's an OC that didn't make it into the list at the end of the previous chapter, but when I wrote that list I didn't know she would become significant.

_Vesta Persons – the girl with whom Peeta shared his first kiss, a kiss that she has not forgotten_

***Mature language warning.* **

Reviews are always appreciated. Enjoy.

**Chapter 11:**

There are a lot of things I don't know about Katniss Everdeen. I don't know her middle name or what her favorite color is. I'm unaware of what kind of books she enjoys or if she even likes to read. I don't know her favorite flavor of cake or cookie (an important detail for a baker). But I do know when her birthday is. I could tell you how she gets past the electric fence. I've observed the how she adores her sister and misses her father. I can't explain why, but I know she likes dandelions. And I know what it feels like to be kissed by her. _Really_ kissed by Katniss Everdeen.

What more do I need to know?

Of course, I'm still interested to learn all the facts and facets that make up Katniss, but in the last seven days I've thought of little else other than the kiss by the lake. And the way her clothes clung to her body on the walk back home. And the kiss under the maple tree a stone's throw from the fence.

Needless to say I've been distracted this week.

I wipe the sweat off my forehead with the back of my hand, careful not to smear any paint across my face. The clouds provide virtually no cover from what is surely the hottest day of the year thus far. I've been outside for the better part of the afternoon. And on my day off. Again. At least today's chore is less labor intensive than aerating the garden last week. I've been assigned to repaint the front façade of the bakery. Unfortunately, the paint went bad at least three years ago, but because my mom won't spare any money for new paint we—that is,_ I_—have to do touchup every summer.

I stand back to look over my work the same way I would after icing a cake or working on a drawing. There have been paintings I've done, with frosting or otherwise, that I would be proud to take credit for, but this is not something I would brag about. It's not the building's fault. The building has halfway decent architecture what with the rosettes on the corners of the window frame and the moldings topping the façade. God knows where all that craftsmanship came from. The problem lies with the color. Bluebell. Now, this color doesn't work on several levels. First of all, it's inaccurately titled, seeing as bluebells are actually dark lavender-blue, and this color is closer to the shade of the sky when the atmosphere isn't clouded with coal dust. Secondly, the aforementioned coal dust causes a problem. It gets stuck in the nooks and crannies, just like it does with every building in Twelve, but because the bakery is painted with a light color it shows easier and makes the building appear dirty. And here's the kicker: the Bluebell is _everywhere_. On the door. On the doorframe. On the window frame. On the paneling and the moldings. Hell, my mother would have me paint the glass bluebell blue if it didn't block the view of the merchandise. The all over technique washes out the architecture into an indistinguishable light blue rectangle. Mom has absolutely no eye for art.

A woman and her pair of toddler sons exit the bakery with a large paper bag in hand. She makes a face of distaste, if it's from the smell of the bad paint or the awful color, I can't tell. When she sees me, covered in paint, she attempts a smile, but truthfully she looks sorry for me.

I turn away from the monstrosity, unwilling to look at it anymore. I balance my ragged paintbrush across the open can of the practically rancid blue paint, right next to the spare can. _Great. There's extra._

The square is more or less dead, unfortunately. There will be more patrons later on when the hottest part of the day has passed. The grocer has been busier than the bakery. I've been hoping I might see Boothe come out for a break, but there's been no sign of him. I wonder if he's hurt himself with his box cutters yet. Suddenly, the door of the in textile shop bursts open and a flock of girls pour out. They gather in the front, taking turns tying one another's hair back with newly purchased ribbons. Red, pink, green, orange, and yellow. Not a bluebell in the bunch. Vesta Persons is amongst them. As is Christen, Delly, Jackeline and I think Madge Undersee might be trailing behind as well. Delly shrieks at Christen—something about her pigtails being tied too tight.

Even from this distance I notice a pair of eyes lock in my direction. Vesta. Then another. Delly. All five bring their heads together like they're huddling up during a soccer match. Then, in a spectacular movement of synchronization, the whole gaggle zeroes in on me. Somehow I doubt they're enthralled with the new paint job on the bakery. I quickly pick up my brush and a dish filled with paint and get back to the blue monster.

It's funny. Weeks ago I would have been excited by attention such as that; even encouraged it to a point. But even then, it wouldn't have amounted to much because all the while I would have been thinking, "What would this be like if the girl were Katniss?" I smirk proudly to myself. I know the answer to that question. In fact, I hope to gain even more intimate knowledge based on our last conversation.

* * *

_Katniss apologizes for suggesting the swim for a third time. It _was_ too late in the day for a swim it turns out. We've been dealing with damp clothes and water in our shoes for the entire walk back. Not to mention the chills caused by the severe drop in temperature when the sun began to go down. Wracked with shivers and chattering teeth, we press on. But Katniss need not apologize. I mean, what with that kiss, it's taken all my focus not to push Katniss against a tree to experience it all over again, let alone worry about catching a cold. When the fence is in sight, dusk has fallen and we run a much greater risk that the electricity might be turned on. _

_After she places her hunting knife back in its hiding place, we stroll slowly back toward the hole in the fence. I'm usually the one who slows us down due to my lack of hiking experience, but this time I'm doing it on purpose. I don't want to go back to Twelve. This afternoon has been like a dream, aside from the chafed skin on my thighs from where my wet shorts have been rubbing against my legs._

_We pause at the fence to listen for the buzz of electricity. I stand a ways off at the edge of the trees, reluctant to leave. Katniss stands only an arm's length from the chain link. But even from here I can sense the quiet. Like always. It's the first time I've been glad Twelve so consistently deprives its citizens._

_"It sounds safe," Katniss says, looking back at me over her shoulder. _

_Safe for us to pass? Sure. Safer than the woods? Undoubtedly. Then why do I feel like I'd rather take my chances with the bears and the wild dogs? Without putting much thought into it, I sprint from the forest's edge, grab Katniss' hand, and tug her backward under the safe cover of a thriving maple tree. "Come here," I whisper, holding tightly to her hand. Her forehead wrinkles with confusion, as she's already standing right beside me. How much more "here" can she be? That confusion works to my advantage as I hastily slant my lips over hers. She freezes, but just for a second. She doesn't see these things coming. Not yet, anyway. I hope we can change that. _

_My heart bursts when Katniss relaxes. Her lips become pliant, following mine with astonishing ease. My girl catches on fast. The skin where my nose touches her cheek is icy cold, but her mouth is hot and inviting. _Oh, god. I want more._ Screw low expectations! My muscles twitch against my will to remain composed. I want to wrap her in my arms, press my lips to her neck, and thoroughly run my fingers through her damp and tangled hair. I entertain the fantasy for a brief moment, then let it go, for now. We've fought through gossip, fights, and an archery injury to get to this point. I'll be damned if I scare her away. _

_With a stifled groan I pull back. I inhale a deep breath of cool evening air to calm myself. I press my forehead against hers, leaving us to stare at the way our hands wrap together. Even that is new to us. When you put it all together—the talk, the kiss, the touching—we've done a lot for a single date. _

_ "So, next week," I mumble ineloquently. My brain has some difficultly forming words. I take in another big gulp of air, but blurt out something just the same. "Can I see you again?"_

_ Katniss pulls back slightly, not a great deal, but enough to make me worry for her answer. "Yes," she replies while simultaneously shaking her head. I wonder which part of her response was done subconsciously, saying yes or shaking her head no. Luckily, Katniss is the type of girl you take at her word. _

_ "I'll teach you how to bake a loaf of bread," I suggest. I need to assert my expertise somewhere in this relationship. Maybe I'll even get on her mother's good side. What mother wouldn't love a guy who knows how to bake? Oh, wait. That's not a good question to ask where Mrs. Everdeen is concerned. _

_ Katniss shakes her head again more noticeably. "I know how to make bread," she says with a roll of her eyes._

_ "I'll teach you how to make croissants."_

_"We'll see how well that goes with tessera grain." Although it's said playfully, the laughter flickers out from her eyes. Then, as quick as a change in the wind, her expression grows impassive. A tessera? She needs a tessera? I suppose that isn't much of a surprise with her father gone. How many are we talking here? What might that mean about her odds in the…? Dammit. I don't want to think about that. I get why Katniss' attitude had such a sudden turnaround. We've been enjoying the freedom of the woods and now we have to go back to our dismal reality. It has quite a sobering effect. The mood is spoiled. Katniss takes back her hands. I touch the bark of the maple tree, just to have something to do. _

_ "It's all in the keeping the fire properly stoked," I ramble to keep up conversation, although now it feels stilted. "You'd be impressed how long I can keep a fire going." Persistence is a skill that has served me well in several capacities, especially in pursuit of Katniss. _

_ Katniss steps away, making her way to the fence. "You don't want to go to the woods again?" she asks thoughtfully._

_ Part of me will always want to follow her into the wild, but then again…"If I go to the woods with you again, I might not survive," I say, only partly joking. _

_ I'm rewarded with her smile. _

* * *

"Hey Peeta." A smooth and sumptuous voice cuts through my pleasant daydream. _Vesta_. That voice was the first thing that attracted me to Vesta. Even at age fourteen she spoke with confidence that made her seem more grown up than other girls in school. It wasn't until I spent a few hours alone with her that I learned confidence should not necessarily be mistaken for depth. Let's just say when I want news on gossip I can always depend on Vesta. I had no desire to repeat our dating experience, especially the kiss. What I would give to take back that kiss! And because I kissed her, and then, you know, never asked her out again, I feel guilty and uncomfortable whenever I'm around her. It doesn't help that she stares at me like Buttercup when he's about to pounce.

The rest of her gaggle of friends flutter behind Vesta, except for Madge, who looks wistfully into the bakery window, like she'd rather be anywhere but here.

"Hey Vesta," I reply. I nod to the other girls. They nod back and wave hello, twisting the new ribbons in their hair around their fingers. "Have you been enjoying summer break?"

"For the most part. Haven't seen you around much," she says in a leading fashion. She's not about to trick me into admitting where I've been hiding. As the town gossip the last thing I need is more attention from Vesta. I dutifully concentrate on my paintbrush and on what could be the eighth coat of paint going up on this woodwork.

"I've been working a lot," I say vaguely.

Vesta sidles up right next to me, in danger of getting dripped on with the evil paint. Brave girl. "I see that. You've already got a tan coming along."

I keep my eyes so focused on the paint job I don't notice her fingers sneak under the hem of my shirt. Vesta lifts it up slightly, looking for tan lines…I hope. I abruptly shrug her off like a bug, sidestepping away. Find a new spot to paint. I pray Vesta takes the hint because the façade of the bakery isn't that large and there's only so much more touchup left.

Out of the corner of my eye I see Vesta glance over her shoulder. The other girls have joined Madge at the window, expressing their delight at the treats and animatedly describing their plans for their future wedding cakes. Madge comments occasionally, but the other girls talk over her before she can say much. Vesta saunters beside me again and even though the rest of her group is no more than six feet away, I feel unnervingly cornered.

"I know you've had a rough couple of months," Vesta says quietly, like she's letting me in on a secret.

"What?" I grunt, confused enough to drop my gaze from my work.

"You never hang out with us anymore. You and Boothe haven't spoken in weeks. Your brother is in a mess of a relationship." She laughs, pulling the red ribbon from her hair letting it fall over her shoulders. I bristle at the way she lists my problems, my family's problems, as if it's some show for her amusement. Did she ever once reach out to me when all that was happening? It would have been a great relief if even one of my friends had stepped up. I mean, it's hard to exist between two opposing sides that never seem to merge. I can't vent to Katniss about Boothe or my other friends because she doesn't know them or like them. And I can't tell my town friends what I've been going though with Katniss because I risk being shunned. Although, being shunned wouldn't be all that different from the way things are now.

"And there's been all that talk about you and…you know…that girl." Vesta shrugs. Her face pinches up with disgust.

_That girl?_

I stare at Vesta with her white blonde hair and pale skin, supple lips, and a body to match. She's indisputably beautiful, yet I ask myself, _what did I ever see in you?_

Ironically, Vesta interprets my staring as interest. Her smile grows, revealing slightly yellowed teeth. The closer I get to Vesta, the uglier she is, whereas the closer I get to Katniss the more I am overwhelmed by her beauty. _Tough choice, huh?_ "I want you to know, I don't care. I mean, she's just some girl from the Seam. She's nothing."

_Funny, I don't care either. Not about what you think of me._ _Not about what you think, period._ Anyone who would say a person amounts to nothing, particularly Katniss, is not worth my time. I have an urge to throw Vesta off the curb; however, making a scene would only add to my problems. I take a deep breath, sucking up too many paint fumes for it to be cleansing. Vesta smiles up at me, completely oblivious to my growing dislike of her. "Thanks for that," I say curtly. She notices. She frowns. Okay, so the girl isn't completely oblivious. I turn back to my painting, doing my best impression of a cold shoulder. "It's good to know who your friends are." Or who your friends aren't as the case may be.

"Right," Vesta says cautiously, unsure of the reason the tenor of our conversation turned cold so suddenly. "So, how about we get together tonight?"

I'd rather watch paint dry. "Sorry. Already got plans."

"Oh," she balks. Her face gets all pinched up again. I'd laugh, but that would make her angrier. I mean, I'm the guy who's slumming it with a girl from the Seam. Who am I to turn her down? Vesta takes a step back, then another, obviously annoyed by my dismissal of her offer. She opens her mouth to say something. If it's to tell me off I'll never know because she trips backward over the open paint can, knocking it off the curb. The separated paint contents spill out over the pavement like a bleeding bluebell. The other girls look over from the window with a soft gasp.

I dash to the curb, kneeling to pick up the can, but it's too late. There's barely a half inch of paint left.

The rest of the group surrounds Vesta. Delly tries not to giggle at Vesta's clumsiness, Christen and Jackeline trade eye rolls, while Madge observes the accident with quiet concern. "I'm sorry," Vesta immediately apologizes. I can tell from her voice she's sincere. She has her moments. Then again, the nervous way she keeps glancing into the window of the bakery tells me Mom must be working the counter. Mom's temper is infamous. I wouldn't put it past Mom to come out here to curse Vesta out, even if it was an accident.

"It's okay," I tell her. A part of me is glad to see the stuff flow down the storm drain, though I'm dreading explaining all this wasted product to Mom.

"Are you sure?" Vesta questions.

"There's another can." I gesture to the unopened can that Vesta hasn't tripped over yet. Yes, the evil paint lives on. Vesta sighs in relief.

"Vesta, we've got to get to the park to meet the guys," Delly announces. She can't help giggling when she says it.

"Sure. Come meet us later if you feel like it, Peeta," Vesta says before she makes a hasty exit. She doesn't even look back.

"See you," I mutter.

The rest of her flock skitters behind her, not bothering to get out of hearing distance before they start teasing her for being clumsy. I'd feel bad if I wasn't also hoping that might deter Vesta for any future pursuits. I wonder what Katniss would think of Vesta flirting with me. She doesn't seem like the jealous type.

"Need any help?" someone chirps behind me. Madge stands above me, her hair pulled back in a sensible ponytail with a pink ribbon.

"Nah." I push up off the sidewalk, slip in the tiny alley between the bakery and the building next door—only wide enough to slide in sideways—and grab a hose we use to wash down the sidewalk. The crank to turn on the water is rusted over from winter so I'm forced to put my whole body into twisting this tiny knob like I'm performing a wrestling hold. Madge looks at me like I'm insane or astoundingly weak. "Don't you need to catch up with your group?" I ask, hoping she'll look away.

Madge glances down the road with a rather apathetic expression for someone who's been left behind. "They won't notice if I'm gone," she says without regret. Madge has always been something of a loner. It's not entirely her fault though. Being the mayor's daughter separates her from people from the Seam and townies alike. She gets to live in that big fancy house without working a day in life, which adds to the mystery of why Katniss would eat lunch with her.

Finally, the corroded knob gives under my grip and rust-tinged water starts flowing from the hose. I hold my thumb over the nozzle and spray the spilled paint. There will still be a stain on the sidewalk, but I can't leave this mess for anyone to step in. The paint quickly thins out and flows down the storm drain.

All the while Madge watches like I'm doing something profoundly interesting, and not a mundane chore. That really goes to show how much fun she was having with the ladies of District Twelve. "How has your summer been so far?" I repeat the same question I made of Vesta, except now I'm interested in the answer.

"I've had better afternoons."

"You weren't enjoying the company?"

"My father says I don't get out of the house enough," Madge admits without embarrassment, only honesty. I guess she's similar to Katniss in that sense. It's not that they always prefer to be alone; it's just that they would rather be alone then hang out with people of poor character. I like women with standards. "How has your break been?"

"Mostly just working." With the mess cleaned up I return to the nozzle to turn off the water. Then I start looping the hose around my hand and elbow to put it away. "My mom doesn't let me idle in the house either."

"And how is everything with you and Katniss?"

I freeze mid-motion. No one has ever asked me straight out about Katniss like that before. Sure, Rilee asked about me and the "dark-haired girl", Miche called her the "Everdeen girl", and just now Vesta referred to her as "some girl from the Seam", but no one asks about Katniss without insinuating our relationship is a scandal.

Madge waits patiently for my response. I carefully wind up the hose the rest of the way and hang it on a hook while I consider what that response should be. Usually, I don't hand out information about me and Katniss beyond vague impressions. It's too chancy to do otherwise. However, Madge doesn't strike me as a gossip or a nark so she's not looking to ruin my reputation or get me in trouble with my parents. And while she and I aren't close, Madge is friendly with Katniss so I trust she's not trying hurt Katniss either. It seems possible then, that all Madge is guilty of is legitimate concern for a friend, which is, honestly, a bit baffling after weeks of disapproval.

"Good. Really good," I say, shaking my head in disbelief. The rush of emotions that flood my head when I make my confession surprises me. I didn't anticipate how freeing it would feel. To be fair, my confession is vague and does not begin to encompass the depth of my feelings, but I revel in the truth of it. Things _are_ good with me and Katniss. She knows how I feel about her; she even knows how long I've felt this way. And when she kissed me…I mean…I've been thinking about it for a week now and I've yet to recover.

"I'm glad," Madge interrupts, a soft smile illuminating her face.

_Oops. Got distracted again_. How long was I gone that time?

Instead of indulging my fantasies, I decide to get back to work. I won't be able to meet up with Katniss until I finish. The spare can of paint is as rusty as the nozzle and takes some careful finagling with a screwdriver to merely get under the lip of the lid.

"Do you need any help painting?" Madge asks for a second time. An odd request. Townies tend to keep to themselves rather than lend a helping hand. And no one works for free. Plus, she's the mayor's daughter for cripe's sake. She's decked out in a wrinkle-free spring green blouse and tan knee-length shorts; not exactly painting clothes.

"I can't ask you to do my chores for me." I laugh. And what's weird is that she actually appears disappointed. The lid suddenly flips off the can and hits the sidewalk with a _clang_. "Whoa!" I exclaim when I see the contents inside.

"What is it?"

At first I think it's black, like liquid coal. I tilt the can so it hits the sunlight and there, clear as day, dark blue—the same blue as the aprons we wear in the bakery. And perfectly useable, not rancid like the other paint. "It's a different color. I thought all the cans were the same." And I can't help speculating if this color lies somewhere under the layers and layers of god-awful Bluebell.

"It would look nice on the trim," Madge suggests. I've only had that thought all day. It's clear to me that Madge and I are kindred spirits.

"Yeah. It would," I agree. Now, normally when it comes to chores I do as I'm told because it's never worth it to get in an argument with Mom, but to have the bad paint accidentally dumped and to find this new paint are signs I cannot ignore. I snag a clean paintbrush from my back pocket and hold it out to Madge. Her face lights up so quickly you'd think I handed her a plate of frosted cookies.

Watching Madge paint entertains me more than I expect. She's slow—I cover four times as much material in the time she does—but very precise with a steady hand. After some quick instruction she's careful to wipe off the right amount of paint from her brush and never lets it drip. Her tongue sticks out the side of her mouth when she concentrates. She's cute…and nothing like I assumed. She's one of the few townie girls that _isn't_ a snob. That must be why Katniss likes her.

When we're finished, Madge wipes her hands on a rag from my pocket. She'll have to wash her face to get the smudge on her cheek. I offer her a cookie or two in compensation for her work, but she declines, contentedly saying goodbye and heading off toward her home. I've just about got the paint brushes rinsed when both my parents come out the front door to look over my work.

"Nicely done, son!" Dad exclaims upon seeing the changes. It was extra work, but the dark blue paint went a long way. The rosettes and the trim are highlighted, plus the coal dust in the niches will blend with the dark color. The building looks brand new. Even the Bluebell becomes less obnoxious when it's no longer the focal point.

Meanwhile, my mother's face scrunches up like she smelled something foul, which could very well be the scent of her beloved paint. "Where did you get this paint?" she snaps.

"I found it in the shed."

"And what a lucky find!" Dad says happily. "You know, when I was a boy we used this color, not quite in this way, but it's good to see it again. Who knew it was still in the shed all these years?"

Who knew? My mother, probably. She's the one who suggested the Bluebell a decade or so ago. She lives under the impression that light colors suggest wealth, which is idiotic because no one in Twelve is wealthy. And Dad, well, Dad has never been able to say no to Mom.

"Seems likely to chip if you ask me," she mutters.

And on that note, it's time for me to get home, take a shower, and head over to the Seam to see my girl. I've had this vision in my head all day I'm hoping to make into a reality. Katniss and I stand at her dining table, me behind her, while I instruct her on how to properly knead dough. From there, it will be so easy to lean in and—

"We're going to need you to work late tonight," Mom says as she huffs back inside. Dad takes a final appraisal of the façade, thumps me on the back once, and follows behind her.

_Wait. What?_

I shove the bakery door open so hard it bangs on the hinges. The bell on the door jangles violently. "What?" I choke out. Dad stops messing with the cake display; his bushy blonde eyebrow rise up with alarm. Mom doesn't look up from the ledger she's scribbling in at the counter.

I take a quick breath. I must have heard her wrong. I _had_ to have heard her wrong. "I've been painting all day and it's supposed to be my day off," I say, trying to keep any note of hysteria out of my voice.

Mom scratches something out of the ledger repeatedly, turns a page, and then scratches out something else. "And we've made plans to meet with the Klee's this afternoon to discuss your brother's apprenticeship," she informs me while her pencil slashes across the paper.

I rush up to the counter and set my hands on the smooth wooden surface where the varnish has been rubbed off from serving generations of customers. "Does it have to be today? I made plans."

Mom looks up from the ledger, her eyes narrowing at me. Like I said, it's hardly ever worth it to get into it with her. However, this is definitely one of those rare moments. "You'll have to cancel them. We're backed up on orders and there are two weddings this weekend to prepare for." She goes back to the ledger simultaneously pulling a half of a cruller out of the pocket of her apron and shoving it in her mouth "Wedding season trumps whatever activities you have going on with your little friends," she says around the doughnut.

_Okay._ _Stay calm. She's not going to let you out of this_. Mom is not the kind of woman who responds to begging, particularly from one of her sons. I have to accept that and figure out a new tactic. "When are you going to get back?"

"Not until after dinner. You'll have to scrounge up something to eat for yourself." She swallows back the cruller with a disgusting gulp. I look over at Dad hoping he'll disagree or explain or say something, but he puts all his concentration on readjusting the cake display by mere centimeters.

"Why so late?"

"We have so much to discuss," Mom says haughtily, as if this is obvious. She obnoxiously licks her finger before turning more pages of the ledger, circling items now and again. "The work expected, compensation, and naturally, the relationship Rilee and the Klee girl have entered into will come into play."

This makes me lean back on my heels. "What does _that_ have to do with anything?"

"Connections are very important, Peeta. We need to know what we're going to get out of this deal." She slams the ledger closed. A dusting of flour puffs out from between the pages.

I lean over the counter again. "What _you're_ going to get–"

My father calmly places a hand on my shoulder, pulling me back. "Son, I'm sorry about this being last minute, but we only just worked out the plans earlier today," he explains.

My mother picks up a paper bag and shakes it open, ignoring my question. She fills the bag with rolls and a few fruit-filled pastries. One might think this is done with generosity, but not my mother. The gift is meant to serve as a status symbol, demonstrating to Kendrick Klee and his wife that Rilee and Kinnian's match is more advantageous to her than it will ever be for Rilee, even with the job. Mom will expect to receive discounts on flowers if she doesn't get them completely for free, while in exchange, the Klee's will receive the intermittent stale pastry. And they'll take it because the truth is, you can't eat flowers.

I lean on the counter to keep from tilting over. I don't know why I'm surprised. This is what my mother does. She takes advantage of people. Miche and Rilee are lucky Mom has found things she can gain from the girls they love. If that weren't the case, she'd tell them to find someone else. There's no chance she will accept Katniss who is poor, fatherless, and the daughter of the woman once engaged to my dad. There's no profit in that connection.

I've often thought about asking my dad why he decided to marry to my mom, but I'm afraid I already know the truth, that she came into his life after he lost Mrs. Everdeen, when he was vulnerable, and he was too weak and heartbroken to say no.

"Tell you what," Dad says cheerfully to combat the tension in the room. "Rilee will take your shift tomorrow and you can have the whole day to yourself."

All of the sudden, I feel weighed down with exhaustion. The opposite of how Dad thought his gesture would make me feel. It's one thing to be late, but to now show up at all? Katniss will think I've changed my mind about us, or worse, she'll conclude that the rumors were true and everything that happened last week was a way of using her. I can't let her think that. I'm not like Mom. "I don't care about tomorrow. I'm meeting someone _today_."

"Oh, and they won't see you tomorrow?" Mom squawks, placing the last apple turnover in the bag for the Klee's.

"Mom–"

"You're not still seeing that Vesta girl, are you?" she interrupts.

"God, Mom. No." I wince.

"Good. Because that girl throws it around like a two coin whore," Mom clucks while primping her hair in her reflection in the display case. For all of Vesta's faults, that is not true. It's as true as my relationship with Katniss being nothing but a fling. Mom will believe any gossip that she doesn't start herself. _Holy shit_, I think with the realization of a disturbing thought. Vesta is a younger version of my mother. She even tried to slip in when she knows I've been on the outs with my friends. Thank God I ran when I had the chance.

"I saw the Undersee girl out there with you," Mom notes.

_Oh, hell._

"She's in your section of school, right? Now _she_ would be a first rate connection to make. Could you imagine a wedding at the mayor's house?"

That is seriously where I draw the line. The last thing District Twelve needs is my mother related to someone with political power. "Mom, please. It can be any other day," I plead one final time.

She bangs the sliding door of the display case shut, rattling all the contents inside. Her face flushes red. That's a bad sign. "Peeta, I don't understand what you're getting so worked up about. Your father already said you could trade shifts. You know how important this is for your brother. And we need you to look after things for tonight. I don't think that's an unreasonable request, do you?"

If I were to say I am meeting Madge or Delly or practically any merchant's daughter, I could tell her the truth. I could convince her how important these meetings are. But because it's Katniss, I have no shot, which isn't right. Katniss is the best person I know. "No," I murmur, admitting defeat.

Mom sets her bag of food aside to remove her apron and shove it into my hands. "Good. Miche is staying here as well. You two can decide how to split the work. Just make sure it gets done."

"Fine." I take the apron, but I don't put it on—enacting my own feeble protest.

"Good afternoon, family!" Rilee practically sings as he enters the bakery with Kinnian on his arm. Rilee's been in a sing-song mood since he had that romantic date with Kinnian in the dirt pit in our backyard. It was a resounding success. Rilee apologized profusely for being an idiot, Kinnian forgave him, then warned him never to pull such immature shit ever again, and together they planted a row of hydrangeas, which grow well in shade, according to her. At least something will grow in that sorry excuse for a garden. Kinnian stopped by the bakery every day last week to visit Rilee. I'll admit to being a bit jealous of that.

"Rilee! Kinnian!" Mom cheers. The ease to which she's able to switch on the charm is impressive, if also disconcerting. "Kinnian, you look lovely today. I like that color on you."

"Oh. Thank you, Mrs. Mellark," Kinnian says appreciatively while smoothing her hand over the front of her blue and white gingham dress. When Mom isn't looking, Kinnian lifts an eyebrow at Rilee, who shrugs back. I don't know who Mom is trying to fool, but Kinnian is no sucker. She's already well-versed at seeing through Rilee's bullshit and she'll have no problem deciphering my mother's motives. She'd be a great asset to have on my side when I eventually tell my parents about Katniss. Maybe I'll get everyone's support before I tell Mom. She can't fight all of us.

"Are you ready to go, Ma?" Rilee inquires. Oh, so he's known about this meeting all day and didn't bother to tell me. _Jerk_. He knows I would have made myself scarce and avoided my parents before they could ask me to stay late.

"I just finished putting together this bag of pastries for your parents, Kinnian. I know your father likes apples, am I right?" Mom asks sweetly.

"They're his favorite," Kinnian responds politely. "You'll have to tell my dad your favorite flower. He'll make you a bouquet." Just like when he gave a little bouquet of primroses to Prim, except he did that for Prim because she's genuinely kind, and not looking for some kind of creepy dowry in exchange for her son.

"I may have to take you up on that, sweetie."

Ugh. The sick satisfaction in my mother's voice makes me flinch.

"Alright, no sense in wasting the day. Shall we?" Mom leads the group out the front door. Rilee and Kinnian have their heads together, sharing an inside joke. Dad makes one more adjustment to a pink and orange painted cake. Then he follows along distractedly.

I stand frozen in place for several minutes after they leave. _How do I fix this?_ I can't blow off Katniss. Our relationship is too new, too sensitive for a screw-up like this. We get into fights over goat cheese for god's sake.

I suppose I could always…leave. The concept is foreign to me. I never think of it because the consequences for doing so would be horrible. I've never skipped a shift, not even when I had the flu one winter. If I close up, run to Katniss' house, explain the situation, and sprint back I could return without missing much business, maybe none at all. But what if someone were to come while I'm gone, see the shop is randomly closed, and then casually mention it to Mom one day? She'd find out I left and she'd give me so many hours of work as punishment I'd never see daylight again. And what kind of brother would I be if I left Miche here to run things by himself? _Miche!_

I hurl myself through the door to the backroom. "Miche! Please tell me we can close early tonight," I say so fast the words run into one another.

Miche looks up from the mound of dough under his knuckles and blinks at me a couple times. When he finally makes sense of what I said he begrudgingly answers, "Aw, I don't know, Peeta. We have two weddings this weekend and we're already behind on the bread order for tomorrow." He pounds the dough weakly with his fists.

"Look, I wasn't supposed to work today. I made plans."

"And I've been here since four am. I was supposed to be done by now, but here I am." Now that I take a moment to study Miche, it's plain to see he's exhausted. He's got flour up to his elbows and yellow butter cream frosting in his hair. I'm covered in paint but at least I got to sleep in today.

"You know I wouldn't ask if it wasn't really important," I beg.

"What's so important?"

I pause. Consider a lie. Then I remember who I'm talking to. "I'm meeting Katniss."

"The Everdeen girl?"

I hold back a sigh. One day everyone will know her by name. "Yes."

Miche releases a heavy breath. He rotates the dough a final time with his hands. Then he places it on pan full of loaves ready to be baked. Out of all of us, Miche is most like Dad. He's sympathetic and he doesn't like confrontation, which puts him in danger of being a pushover. This is why I'm thankful he found Grace—a girl without a mean bone in her body. You get a guy like Miche with a girl like Vesta and she'll have him run down so quick he'll choose to obsess over the neatness of the cake displays instead of looking at the world outside the window. Bread recipes will end up being the only topic of conversation he'll take part in while his wife belittles his sons.

"I feel for you," Miche says wearily. "I was planning to have dinner with Grace. So we're both missing out."

_But Grace is your soon-to-be fiancée._ She'll understand. Katniss is the girl I have been sort of officially dating for a mere week. "Not if we close early. Or just for an hour."

Miche reaches into a bin of flour and shakes it out over the surface of the work table where he'll roll out another loaf—one of the thousands he'll make in his lifetime. "Peeta, I'm sorry, but it's not happening."

The bell on the front door jingles, signifying that a customer has come in. It's after three, which means we'll get our usual late afternoon rush. My stomach sinks. Katniss is out there waiting for me. The one time she agreed to see me without any resistance and I'm missing it.

Miche detects the black shroud that promptly envelopes me. "I know it seems dire, but try not to worry. She'll be there tomorrow," he says with an encouraging, if tired, smile.

Oh man, do you ever not know Katniss. "Sure," I say, my voice hollow.

I might have been able to handle the disappointment if business picked up after that, but it never does. After the slight rush, it's basically dead. That's the point when I consider hanging myself with my apron. Instead, I go ahead and perform all the closing procedures. I sweep; dust a little. A kid pressed his nose against the glass of the display case earlier today and promptly sneezed all over it, leaving a nice goober to clean up. While I work I mentally compose ten different drafts of an apology to Katniss. They all say essentially the same thing; although, the later drafts have an increasing number of expletives concerning Mom in them.

When I add up the earnings for the day I'm especially disheartened. According to the ledger, we sold eight loaves of wheat, two dark rye, one light, six scones, a cheese danish, a half dozen lemon muffins, and received an order for a yellow birthday cake. A slow day by business standards. I should have left when I had the chance.

I add in one loaf of marble rye to the ledger, since there's several leftover. I'll take it with me to see Katniss.

When I'm done in the front I join Miche in the back, which makes me long for the boredom of working the front. We bear down to get caught up with the bread order. Halfway into the frosting job on one of the wedding cakes Miche realizes he read the order wrong and we've been frosting in the wrong color. It's the first occasion that has ever pushed my normally even tempered brother to curse and if I weren't so miserable I'd find it funny.

When we near the end of the day, we aren't as far as we need to be, but Miche is so tired he can't even walk straight, let alone make the frosting details the cakes require. I'm hungry and tired myself. Spending the day in the sun coupled with my simmering anger at Mom saps most of my energy. Miche finally relents to calling it quits, but it's a mere fifteen minutes earlier than closing. I rush out of the bakery before Miche changes his mind, only pausing to splash cold water over my hands and face and to grab the bread I set aside. Unfortunately, I'm fully aware that I'll be working tomorrow despite Dad's promise of the day off. We didn't get through enough work and those brides are expecting painted cakes. Mom will make me do it. God knows she can't paint.

A feeling of unease slinks into my stomach when I reach the Everdeen residence. Dusk has fallen. The house is dimly lit with barely any light coming from the window. I imagine Katniss and Mrs. Everdeen sitting on the couch. Prim at their feet playing with Buttercup. They share an evening much like the others they spend together. But what Katniss is feeling, I cannot fathom. I've never mistaken Katniss for a forgiving person. Hugging the bread a little tighter, I reconsider going in. Maybe I should wait for tomorrow and give Katniss a chance to cool off? I think better of it. Time is not in my favor. The longer I let her be mad the more time she'll have to convince herself not to forgive me.

Lady snores away; tied to the fence as usual. I knock gently on the front door a few times so as not to wake her.

The door creaks open a smidge, and while I prepare myself for Katniss' scowl, I'm pleasantly surprised to see Prim with her hand on the door. However, she doesn't seem equally happy to see me. "Hello," she mumbles lowly.

I sum up the last remnants of energy I have "Hey Prim. How've you been?"

"Oh. You know, okay." Prim shrugs.

I've never known Prim to be so…not chatty. Which means she must know. I hate myself for letting Prim down just as much as I do for letting Katniss down. Prim deserves at least half the credit for getting Katniss and me together. "That's…good." I awkwardly shuffle my feet. "Is your sister home?" I can't see inside of the house with the way Prim keeps the door mostly closed.

"Um…yes. She's here." Prim blinks rapidly. She does a little shuffle dance herself.

"Can I come in?"

"Um…I'm not sure right now is a good time," she says stiffly.

_Shit_. Katniss must be pissed. "Look, if I could talk to Katniss for a minute I think I—"

"Prim, it's rude to keep guests out on the doorstep," Mrs. Everdeen chides her daughter. The door creaks open a hair wider to reveal Mrs. Everdeen standing behind Prim and blocking my view into the house again.

"Good evening, Mrs. Everdeen." Fatigue affects my attempt to sound upbeat. "I know it's late, but I thought I would stop by for a visit. I brought a fresh loaf of marble rye." I hold out the paper bag.

"That's very kind of you," Mrs. Everdeen says. Her voice sounds genuinely appreciative; not offended that it's a gift or that it comes from the bakery. Huh. Maybe the woman is warming up to me. "Come in and we'll share a few slices."

"Great," I reply, feeling more encouraged than I have all day. The door opens wide. My eyes automatically search for Katniss. The scene before me is not what I anticipated while standing at the gate. Two candles light the room. One on the table. The other on the television. Katniss sits at the dining table. A scruffy dark-haired kid in desperate need of a comb sits on the other side and next to him sits Gale Hawthorne. _Great._

I must have stood there too long because Mrs. Everdeen snags the bread bag out from under my arm, waits for me to step inside, and closes the door behind me. Well, now there's no turning back. "Hi Katniss," I say, warily crossing the room. I glance at Hawthorne, but I don't bother with a greeting. We haven't spoken since he confronted me at school, and frankly, I don't care to speak to him now. "How are you?" For a week I've been picturing the enthralled girl I kissed by the lake; however, the Katniss who sits here with her hands wrapped around a mug of tea is a return to the norm. Serious and quiet.

"Fine," Katniss replies. She sips her tea and says nothing more.

_You're not fine! _I want to yell at her. _You're mad, so be mad. _Who ever thought I'd be wishing for her to yell at me? As much as I've lamented over her hurting her all day, this distant, indifferent attitude is worse than anger. It means she's already compartmentalized her feelings. When she does that it makes it much harder to get her to open up. I can only hope that it's only because Hawthorne and this other grubby kid are here that she's so calm.

"We were playing mancala," Prim cuts in. Sure enough there's a handmade mancala board on the table. The unlevel board, which teeters back and forth, appears to have been gouged with a blunt object, and not so smoothly. I could have done a better job. Nonetheless, the river rocks that fill up the cups are nice. "I got this board for my birthday. From Rory." She smiles at the kid. He shrugs back and kind of grimaces to compensate for the slight blush on his cheeks._ Uh oh._ "Do you know how to play?"

"I played when I was a kid. I'm more of a gin rummy player these days."

"Well, I'm a champion," Prim brags outright.

"You are not. I've beaten you," the kid, Rory, declares.

Prim remains proudly unaffected. "_Sometimes_ Rory beats me, but I've won more games against him than he has against me. Plus, he cheats."

"Hawthornes do not cheat. We're honorable men."

_Hawthornes?_ Oh. This must be another one of Gale's siblings. Now that I compare the two the resemblance is pretty obvious, as is the similar behavior. Only Gale's younger brother would think he needs to be overtly masculine to impress a girl. Kid will go much further with the handmade gift thing when it comes to impressing Prim.

Rory sits up straight, puffing out his chest for effect. Compensating, once again. This time for being about three inches shorter than Prim by my estimate. The kid needs to take it down a peg. I don't like all this testosterone being flaunted around Prim.

"Then how did that stone get in your shirt pocket?" Prim asks playfully. The kid opens his mouth to protest, then snaps it closed just as quickly, looking defeated. Prim laughs. Rory fights a smile. "Would you like to play?"

I glance at Katniss who puts special effort into avoiding eye contact. If she's not going to throw me out then I'm not leaving. "Don't go easy on me."

"No chance!"

There are only four dining chairs so Prim insists I take hers. I immediately decline of course, but then Rory offers _his_ chair to Prim, and I have to give the kid a point on that. When all is said and done I'm sitting next to Katniss with Prim across from me. Rory leans on his elbows over the table, concentrating intensely on the game, probably taking note of Prim's winning strategies. I was never all that great at mancala and I'm rusty to boot, so instead of focusing on the game, I cast furtive glances at Katniss, hoping for an indication into her feelings for me right now. Unfortunately, she's way too good at keeping her face clear of emotion. Hawthorne isn't quite as adept. His feelings are quite plain. He wants to punch me in the face, but doesn't wish to do so in front of Prim and Mrs. Everdeen.

Mrs. Everdeen plunks down the now sliced loaf of bread on the middle of the table. She also sets down a cup of tea for me. "This bread is very good, Peeta," she says, taking a piece with her to the couch. There, she tends to some sewing on a delicate blue dress.

"I'm glad you like it. I made it myself."

Both Prim and Rory take slices. Rory practically inhales his. But Katniss and Hawthorne make no moves toward the bread. I'm not at all shocked Gale declines from taking the bread I brought, and on some level, I'm not surprised that Katniss declines as well. She's not one for charity. On the other hand, I've ego enough to think there is a deeper subtext to the action. She refuses the bread, she's with Gale. She takes the bread, she's with me. Or it could be that she's not hungry.

The tense silence continues, interrupted only by the plunking of the stones into the individual cups of the board. Prim scoops up a handful of stones in a major play that clinches victory for her, which is fine with me because I think the board gave me a splinter.

"I saw you with Madge Undersee today," Gale says over the rim of his mug.

Katniss perks up at the name.

I shift my eyes to Gale, trying to figure his angle. There's something accusatory in his eyes. Is he trying to imply something is going on between Madge and me? Anything he might have seen in the square was clearly innocent, unless he's got a mind like Mom and thinks if a guy and a girl stand near one another they're a couple. "Yeah, she helped me repaint the bakery," I mention casually. Prim claims another cup of stones.

"She painted the bakery?" Hawthorne repeats, his mug still at his mouth. His eyebrows come close to meeting one another in bewilderment.

Apparently Hawthorne didn't see much if he didn't put that together. What was he doing in the square anyway? "Yes. She did a great job."

Gale sets down his mug with a _thunk_. "Why would she do that? Are you seeing her?" he snaps. Almost immediately, he blinks and looks away, as if just realizing what he asked. Now I'm confused. Isn't that what he was implying in the first place?

"No," I answer. "It wasn't planned. She saw me in the square and offered to help. She picked it up quick, too. I didn't know _you _knew her."

Gale hunches over his mug in stony silence. Geez. Why so sensitive about the mayor's daughter? It's my turn in the game. I get one point. Then Prim gets six.

"We sell the mayor strawberries," Katniss explains when Hawthorne doesn't bother to speak up.

"You sold him some today, didn't you, Gale?" Rory says without taking his eyes off the game. He scratches the back of his head and I swear some dirt shakes out. Although, If I shook my head flour would come flying out of my hair.

"Katniss, I thought you didn't go into town today," Prim says.

The kids think they're making innocent conversation, when really they're giving me pieces of a puzzle. Katniss and Hawthorne must have gone hunting earlier today, simple enough. And they must have gathered strawberries to sell to the Undersees; however, instead of sticking to their routine and selling as a team, only Hawthorne went into town. This is where things get sticky. Why didn't Katniss go along? Did she not want to run into me while she was with Gale? And then, to add to the mystery, why does Hawthorne have all this concern about seeing Madge and I together? I mean, did he go looking for her when he didn't find her at home? The one thing I can be sure of: nothing good ever comes of Katniss spending time with Gale.

While I put all this together Prim makes the last move of the game. "I won," she announces happily. I don't bother asking for an official count. It's obvious she collected double the amount of stones I did.

"You're still the champion."

"My turn!" Rory jumps in to reset the game.

"Actually, I think we should head home," Hawthorne interjects. I almost pass out from shock. He's going to leave? He hasn't even subtly insulted me yet.

"Come on, Gale. It's not late," Rory whines.

"Honorable men make it home in time for bed. They have to get up early to work." Oh wait. There's the insult. I'd like to see him get up at four every day.

The Hawthornes trade farewells with the Everdeens. Mrs. Everdeen offers a message for Gale's mother and Prim and Rory stand an arm's length apart looking at everything but each other. Katniss and Gale share a hushed conversation at the doorway. The scene makes me uncomfortable. I can't picture my family having this kind of well-rehearsed, congenial back-and-forth with the Everdeens. And I thought I'd found every possible way to be jealous of Gale. Before they leave, Hawthorne casts another severe glance; this one is directed at Katniss. She casts her eyes down the floor. She nods. The door closes before she looks up again.

Mrs. Everdeen returns to the table to wrap up the remaining bread with a tight look to her jaw. Prim cleans up the game, throwing nervous looks at both her mother and sister. The tension did not leave with the Hawthornes. It's obvious that I'm disrupting their routine. I'm the rude guest who came without an invitation, except I did have an invitation that I missed out on. I stand up and join Katniss near the door. "Do you think we could talk outside?" I ask.

Katniss doesn't wait for permission. "Fine," she replies. Mrs. Everdeen puts the bread in the pantry cupboard, never saying a word. Katniss was right when she said her mother doesn't care what she does. It's unsettling to see it in action.

Prim comes out with us only to make sure Lady is comfortable for the night. She gets a stitched up blanket that's mostly made up of patches wrapped around her shoulders. I wonder how many times Lady has tried to eat it.

I recognize the path Katniss leads us on immediately. We're headed toward the Meadow.

"I owe you an explanation," I begin.

Katniss steps into the grass of the Meadow. I follow. Fortunately, we're moving slowly enough that I don't need to watch my step.

"For what?" she asks.

You know, I've pointed out a lot of instances in which Katniss is not like other girls, but it's just my luck that the instance in which she _does _behave like a girl is when her boyfriend does something stupid. Not only do I have to apologize, I have to first explain what I'm apologizing for. I should tell Katniss how typical she's being. She'd be appalled. "For not being here when I said I would be." I clarify. I gently wrap my hand around her forearm, forcing her to pause. She doesn't flinch or object. In anything, she feels like there's no fight in her. "It was out of my control. My brother is leaving the bakery to work for Kendrick Klee, the florist, and my parents planned to have dinner with the Klee's to hammer out the details, but I didn't find out till this afternoon so they made me work even though I was scheduled off." I take a much needed breath. I didn't mean to say it all so fast, but I'm relieved when the whole explanation is out there.

Katniss turns her head toward the road. We can't see it from here as we're tucked at the bottom of a hill, but just the fact that she's looking makes me think she wants to run. Her silence twists my gut like I swallowed a razor blade. I can't stand it. I need her to talk to me. I need her to look at me. Carefully, I put my fingers to her chin and turn her face back to me. "I would have much rather been here with you," I confess. "Do you believe me?"

"I believe you," she says flatly.

I wait for her to continue; perhaps unleash a scowl at the very least. "I was afraid you'd be upset, but…" Why am I continuing in this vein at all? If she's not upset I should be happy, right? It's just…no one is that understanding. Plus, the look she shared with Hawthorne left me feeling unsettled. "Thank you for understanding," I say. I slide my hand down her arm to clasp hers. Again, she doesn't draw back. I should be thrilled. Why doesn't this feel right?

"It's good that you came. There's something I need to say to you." Katniss twists her hand out of my grip. "We can't see each other anymore," she says dully.

"What?" I croak. I almost laugh. Will there ever be a day we spend together where Katniss doesn't try to push me away? "Katniss, I messed up today. I know I did." I say quickly. "I will do everything in my power to make sure it doesn't happen again. I promise."

"It's not because of today. I'd already decided."

So I was right. Something was going on between Gale and Katniss. He must have convinced her to do this. Last week was so perfect, why would she talk herself out of it? I step forward and take her hand a second time. It's important that she focus on me, on us, and not Hawthorne or whatever the hell is giving her second thoughts. "Katniss, come on. Why are you talking this way?"

"I'm not comfortable with it. It needs to end," she replies, but it sounds rehearsed. If she's sticking to a script then maybe there's a chance she's unsure.

"I get not being comfortable. This is all new to you. It's new to me, too. But I don't understand why it should end."

"It's too…it's…" She steps back, ripping her hand from mine. "I told you I didn't want this," Katniss says fiercely. Finally she sounds like her herself! And she unknowingly admits to being a big hypocrite. Katniss did tell me she wasn't looking for a relationship that day in the Hob and consequently I gave her to opportunity to stay away like she said she wanted. But she didn't stay away. She found me.

"And yet you took me hunting," I point out. "You brought me to a lake you've never shown to anyone else. _You kissed me_."

Her whole body goes rigid. "That was a mistake."

"A mistake?" I scoff. She's lying. She can't truly believe that. I felt her tremble in arms when we kissed beside the water, and it wasn't from the cold. I saw the shine in her eyes when she was fighting back tears. Those events were real. I didn't invent them in one of my fantasies. If anything is a mistake it's her toxic friendship with Hawthorne. _Why was he there tonight? That should have been me._ "Is this about Gale? Do you want to be with him?" I bark, my anger betraying what composure I still have.

"This isn't about Gale," she barks back.

"Like hell it is!" I shout. I know it's a misstep as I say it. Talking Gale down isn't going to help my case, yet I'm yelling anyway. "I saw you two sharing a look like you're pulling some big joke over on me."

"You don't know what you're talking about," she seethes, hugging her arms against her body.

"Just like Gale doesn't know what he's talking about. He doesn't know anything about us."

"He knows enough," she says bitingly. That part of the argument is done, apparently.

I search my mind for another line of reasoning to pursue, but we're back to where we were three weeks ago. I did the only thing I could then. I forced her to make the decision about us. But I can't do that again, not after what's passed between us.

Katniss hugs herself tighter. I wish I had a jacket to offer her. Not that she'd accept it. She takes a few steps away from me, facing the woods. I've never seen Katniss in the moonlight. The angles of her features throw dark shadows across the planes of her face. Her skin glows luminescent in the places where the moonlight lands on her. The scars and the scuffs from her hard life wash out as if they were never there. I wish the moonlight could wash away the awfulness of this day.

"The reaping is coming up," Katniss says lowly.

My stomach sinks. We all know about the reaping coming up, but nobody mentions it because no one wants to dwell on it. Squirming with fear on the actual reaping day is enough of an experience. Maybe I would dwell on it if I were in a position like Katniss and needed to take out a tessera to survive and in turn had my name entered more than the minimum. I thought of myself as so enlightened what with my anti-Capitol views, yet I overlooked an important difference between Katniss and me—one she must have been thinking of since the first time we spoke. "Is this where you say we're too different?" I shove my hands in my pockets. "That you're from the Seam and I'm from town so there's no way we can be together," I grumble.

"We are different."

"You know that's bull. Look at your parents!" I gesture wildly at nothing.

Her gray eyes, as dark and menacing as a sky filled with thunder clouds, snap to meet mine. "Yes. Look at them. They chose each other and it brought them nothing but pain. And when you add in the threat of the reaping, there isn't any point." She looks away again. "None that I can see."

I close the distance between us in two strides, stepping right in front of her. "What about the lake? The whole time we were there something was happening between us. You felt it. You can't deny that."

Katniss bristles, her hands closing into fists. At first I think she's going to lay into me, but instead she scowls and storms off. Evidently, she can't deny it, but she can stomp off in a huff. "Katniss! Wait!" I shout after her. She doesn't stop. I move faster and cut her off. She tries to duck around me, but I'm just as quick. I _was_ the runner up wrestling champion. I'm willing to put those skills to use if need be. "Listen to me," I plead. She stops trying to get away, but she's unmistakably unhappy about it. I try to clear my head of the noise and frustration. I'm out of apologies and speeches. "Please…" I pick up her hand to give me strength and to deter her from running away. I wait for inspiration to strike, but there's one phrase that keeps replaying in my head. One thing I haven't said. "I…I love you."

Katniss' scowl deepens. "Don't say things like that," she hisses.

"Don't tell me what I feel, Katniss," I reply sharply. "All that stuff I said to you last week about the song and waiting for you to notice me, I wasn't making that up."

"We're not kids anymore."

"Damn right, we're not! That's why this is so important."

Katniss treads up the hill back in the direction of the road. I follow in step behind her, speaking loudly so she doesn't miss a single word. "I loved you when we were five years old and I didn't know anything. I loved you when we were eleven and I was afraid you were about to die." I stumble as we go down the other side of the hill, but avoid falling on my face. That's all I need during my impassioned speech is a bloody nose. "I loved you two months ago when I took a chance on talking to you! And now, _right now_, in the same moment you're trying to convince me to fuck off, I'm in love with you!" Wow. I went two and a half months without saying _I love you_ and now I spew it out over and over again like I've lost all control of my mouth. Then again, if there's anything in this world I know, it's how to love Katniss Everdeen.

Katniss comes to a slow stop. Her shoulders, which are tight with anger or frustration or whatever, droop as though she's suddenly worn out. "You _can't_," she moans. I move as though I'm going to wrap my arms around her. It physically hurts me when she's like this, strained and confused by her own emotions. "You've never understood…"

"Then make me understand," I whisper. Whatever it is, I'll accept it. Doesn't she see that my love for her isn't conditional? Gently, I turn her to face me. The moon reflects beautifully in her eyes. "I want us to be together and I think you want that, too." I can't stop myself from putting one hand at her waist, the other cupping her cheek. "Please, Katniss. Please. I can…I can take care of you…just as well as Gale can." _Better than Gale can_, I think. "We can take care of each other. That's all I want."

"I don't want you take care of me. I don't want anyone to take care of me," she whispers fiercely. Her body stiffens like it did when I first tried to kiss her at the lake. I let go then, but this time I hold tightly to her. I'm too afraid that this is the last time I'll ever hold her.

"I know it's scary to be vulnerable…to…to risk your heart." My voice wavers. I gulp at the lump forming in my throat. "But it's worth it. It's so worth it, Katniss."

Katniss lifts her hand to her face, covering mine. From here she could press closer, but she doesn't. I curse myself for believing that she would, even for a second. She removes my hand, letting it fall between us. "You're wrong, Peeta. It's not," Katniss states, without a tremor in her voice. She breaks free easily, probably because I'm not doing anything to hold her back.

_It's not worth it?_ I'm_ not worth it?_ That's…wrong. That's unfair. Katniss has always been worth it for me. Why can't it be the same for her? Memories of the last two months flash before my eyes. Memories, _not_ fantasies. "Tell me you were pretending!" I holler at her retreating form. "Tell me it didn't mean anything to you!"

The night is as quiet in Twelve as it is in the forest. There's no wind to trouble the grass. The mockingjays are at rest. The district has retreated to their houses, resting up for another day that will blend in with the rest. But this day I won't forget.

Katniss pauses to look over her shoulder. She speaks with the coolness and clarity of a well-trained hunter standing over her kill. "Don't come here again. Thank you for the bread."

The bread. From today. From years ago. That's all I am. I'm just the boy with the bread.

* * *

A/N: For those of you who have asked whether or not the reaping is a part of this story, well, now you know. I wasn't trying to trick anyone. This has always been true of the story. The Games have been subtly mentioned within the story and not-so-subtly mentioned in the story description at the beginning of the first chapter. The premise of the story is not _what would happen if Katniss and Peeta weren't in the Games? _It is and has always been _what would happen if Peeta were brave enough to talk to Katniss? _

I also feel compelled to mention, my lovely readers, that we're reaching the end of this story. There will be one more chapter for sure, maybe two. As always, thank you for reading. My readers are nothing short of amazing! *Ducks angry reviews*

P.S. Check out_ Always Trust Your Wingman_ Chapters 1 & 2 for sideshots taking place immediately following this chapter.


	12. Chapter 12

A/N: Presents first. Some of you may have already received them if you have me on alerts. I posted two outtakes. One from Prim's POV titled _Always Trust Your Wingman_, and one from Madge's POV titled _My Last Date with Peeta Mellark._ Both take place following chapter 11 so I strongly suggest reading them first as they are referenced in this chapter.

I have to say a big all caps THANK YOU to everyone who voted in the Pearl Awards. This story got some very cool recognition: Best Peetniss, Most Addictive Story, Best Characterization of a Minor Character (Prim), and Best Author (which I am so not deserving of). I was truly touched.

If you're not reading _An Extra Dividend_ by Medea Smyke, you're missing out on an awesome story, not to mention letter-writing, espionage, and cake-eating.

Okay, this is the chapter where _First Date_ and _The Hunger Games_ universes crash into one another. Consequently, there are quotes taken directly from the Canon. And of course, I do not own _The Hunger Games_.

***Mature language warning.* **

Reviews are always appreciated. Enjoy!

**Chapter 12: **

"Peeta! Come on. Get up," Rilee growls. He doesn't want to be doing this—this being a chore and all. I hold my blankets tighter around my shoulders, even though the room is stuffy and sweat is gathering on my neck and behind my knees. "Man, come on." A pillow hits me on the shoulder. "Dad's going to be back in ten minutes. Mom is about to throw a fit."

I grunt a wordless response. Rilee scoffs as he leaves my room. _Good_. If Mom's repeated wake up shrieks haven't gotten me up Rilee's weak attempts aren't going to do the job.

With one eye open I peek at the clock sitting next to my bed. Almost noon. Sleeping until noon is like sacrilege to a baker. Not that I've been doing much sleeping. Sleep would be a welcome change. Getting up before eight or earlier every day since I was six has inundated me with a sleeping cycle near impossible to break. I just don't want to get out of bed.

"PEETA! Get your ungrateful hide down here _now_ or don't expect any lunch!" One guess who that is. Despite the brash sound of Mom's voice the homey scent of griddle cakes wafts up to my room. My stomach gurgles with hunger for the first time in a week. Then I think of the occasion and my gut twists. I make a run for the toilet.

Nothing comes up. Nothing but dry heaves. A dizzy spell fills my head when I'm done, so I knock down the lid of the toilet and lift myself onto the seat. I hang my head forward as close to my knees as I can get, gulping in air to push down the nausea. Simultaneously, I reach into the shower, only an arm's length away, and bat at the faucet until the water comes on. Mom will think I've jumped in the shower and she can save herself the stroke in trying to motivate me. No worries about wasting water. I'm last. There's no hot water left anyway.

Sweat cools on the back of my neck. This morning…afternoon…whatever...feels worse than yesterday and the day before. It should be getting easier, not harder, right? Maybe if it wasn't reaping day.

A quick rinse takes care of the grease in my hair and the sweat on my back. I grope mindlessly for my clothes, coming across the items I wore last year. Gray corduroy slacks that are on the cusp of being too short. A button down that was pure white back when Miche wore it. Good enough.

By the time I fumble my way downstairs the whole family has already assembled at the table, including Dad, whose face is a little red either from standing too close to the ovens or because of sunburn. Dad never tans. Only burns.

"Nice of you to get out of bed and join us, Peeta," Mom says bitingly. She stabs at a piece of boiled ham on her plate and chews it loudly.

"We just started, son. Have a seat," Dad says politely.

I fall into my usual chair next to Rilee. It's a decent spread Mom put together. Sure, the leftover scones and nut muffins are too stale for birds to eat, the eggs are kind of gray, and the ham is gristly, but Dad brought fresh bread from the bakery and cracked open a jar of blackberry preserves. And Mom made griddle cakes—this being the only day of the year that she makes them. It's our family tradition. Brunch before the ceremony. Most people celebrate after, but we start early—as if we're already confident of the results. I don't know if this is meant to comfort us or potentially nourish us in anticipation of being chosen, but either way, it's what we do. When I was younger and didn't have a sound grasp of what the Games were yet, I used to look _forward_ to it each year solely for the griddle cakes. Now I feel too sick to eat.

I take a portion of everything, especially the tea because God knows I need the jolt, and eat without making eye contact with anyone else at the table—this being another part of the tradition. We eat in silence. Well, not complete silence. Someone needs to ask how things went at the bakery this morning.

"How was business this morning?" Mom inquires. _And there it is._

Dad swallows the lump of griddle cake in his mouth before he answers. "Just fine. A few customers. Made a trade for a squirrel."

My fork screeches across my plate. "Traded with who?" I ask before I can think better of it. Everyone peeks up from their food, eyeing me warily. They know something's been…wrong with me. I've been holed up in my room for pretty much every minute I wasn't working for the past week and I don't need a mirror to know I look like shit. Miche asked about it, but I haven't been in a talking mood.

Dad slices up another bite of cake and explains. "The same young man who comes in once a month to trade."

I settle back into pushing my food around on my plate. What was I thinking? That it would be her? I'm glad it wasn't. I think I'm glad.

"That washerwoman's boy?" Mom asks while spreading a generous amount of preserves over her bread. Dad nods in reply. She bites into her bread. "Wha did you gif 'im?"

_What is it with my family and talking with their mouths full? _

"Some rolls," Dad replies. He attacks his ham with rigorous concentration.

Mom swallows. "The leftovers from yesterday?" Dad nods again. "Good," she declares.

He's lying. I can tell by the way he refuses to look Mom in the eye. Dad wouldn't fail to honor a trade by giving stale bread in exchange for fresh meat. I have no doubt if we check the ledger and the bread count we'd find some discrepancies.

Mom proudly guzzles back some tea while the rest of us shovel in the remaining food on the table. While I enjoyed this meal as a kid, it's cruelly ironic to serve it now. A feast on the one day I can't stand to eat it. Or maybe it's just me. Dad, Mom, and Miche don't seem to have a problem. Rilee clears his plate in record time.

Yeah. It's just me and my week from hell—complete with a judgment day exactly seven days after the fact.

This will probably be the last time it will be like this: all of us together at one table. By this time next year Miche will be married and living in his own house. He finally popped the question a few days ago. Reaping day can make you a bit antsy for stuff like that. Rilee will be done with his eligibility after today. I'll be the only one left in the running.

I swallow the last of my bitter tea at the same time Mom orders us to start the clean up. "Ceremony at two!" she announces like she's channeling Caesar Flickerman. When I look down at my plate I'm surprised to see at least three quarters of it gone. I'm struck with a strange feeling of regret at the sight for not enjoying it. I can't even remember what it tasted like.

Mom chooses to leave early. She mumbles something about cameras damaging the roof of the bakery. Before she and Dad depart she appraises our clothing. I pass; however Mom also takes this opportunity to point out how pale I am and that I need to run a comb through my hair. I use my fingers.

After we clean up the meal my brothers and I leave the house together, but Miche doesn't stick around long. He ditches us to meet up with the Grace and the Fieldings. This will be the last year their family will have to go through the agonizing wait with Gusset; although, I wouldn't put it past Rilee to hope that Gusset gets picked.

The weather is beautiful, despite the grim events of the day. Blue skies. Soft breeze. Perfect day for a walk. Naturally that's right where my mind would go. I've grown quite fond of taking walks, on Tuesdays especially. That thought makes my stomach roll over. I wish I'd stuck with tea and skipped the food. It sits like lead in my stomach.

The whole silent thing from lunch carries on between Rilee and me. He keeps his eyes on the ground and his hands in his pockets. That's typical. Not only of Rilee, but of nearly every family we pass. A few offer a somber nod, but most everyone is clearly preoccupied and stick very close to their families. This isn't a day for celebration, despite the trappings and the media attention provided by the Capitol that do everything they can to reaffirm that it is. I don't know what they're drinking in the Capitol that causes them to lose all sense of humanity, but we're not getting it around here.

The square has undergone its reaping day transformation, which amounts to red and blue banners hanging from the front of every business, including ours, displaying the same logo that's on the cover of my history book. A basic stage and podium in front of the Justice Building is wrapped in matching fabrics to disguise the simple construction.

Since we got here barely before two the square is already packed with people either looking for their friends to offer words of good luck or placing bets on the results. Rilee and I push through toward the stage where the kids ages twelve to eighteen are sorted out. Anyone who doesn't make it to the square will stand in the alleyways. We get a front row view of the action. Lucky us.

Rilee bounces nervously on his toes while we wait in line. After we're checked in we'll be separated from the girls and then by age. The closer we get to check in Rilee grows more and more anxious to the point that he looks like he's having some kind of attack. He searches around the square in jerky movements too quick for him to actually absorb what he's looking at. One of the Peacekeepers at the front of the line, a hefty fellow obviously brought in for the day, notices and he doesn't like it.

"Who are you looking for?" I ask under my breath.

"Who do you think?" Rilee snaps back.

Before I form a guess, a girl with auburn hair snakes out from the mass of people. "Rilee!" Kinnian calls out as she runs towards us. Her parents huddle together near the edge of the crowd, but they hold back from following their daughter. Nice of them to give the kids a moment together before the ceremony starts.

"Hey," Rilee says gently as he takes her hands. The relief in his voice is obvious. And we haven't gotten through the difficult part of the day yet. "You look beautiful."

Kinnian rolls her eyes at the compliment. She's wearing the same blue and white gingham dress from last week. Her hair is different though; pinned up instead of loose. She looks grown up and too good for my brother, frankly. "Are you nervous?" she asks him.

Rilee shakes his head adamantly. "We'll be fine." He gulps. He tries to smile, but it's forced. "Fourteen entries between us. Our chances are good." Rilee's right about that. There are no better odds for a pair of kids in their final year.

"Eighteen," Kinnian corrects quietly.

"What?" Rilee gasps. My eyes widen as well. Even with a family of five we've been fortunate to never need to pick up a tessera, meaning my brother has the lowest number of entries possible. Seven. He assumed Kinnian was in the same situation. Anyone would have. She's a townie and an only child.

Kinnian lowers her voice further. "Business hasn't been great the last few years. Still isn't. That's why my dad can only offer you room and board." She smiles through an embarrassed grimace, trying to make light of the situation. I never got around to asking what Rilee would be paid in return for his work as an apprentice to Kinnian's father. My mind has been elsewhere. I figured it wouldn't be a lot, but I'm getting the impression it was much less profitable than Mom would have liked. Nevertheless, most anyone would take room and board over employment in the mines. I didn't expect Rilee to be moving out so soon. How am I going to handle being alone with my parents for the next few years?

"Yeah, but you never told me about any…tesserae," Rilee whispers the last part.

A memory from weeks ago lights up in my head. On my very first date—or outing or whatever you want to call it—with Katniss and Prim, Prim walked into the flower shop without a penny, yet she came out with a bundle of primroses just the same. At the time, I figured Kendrick Klee was being generous or Prim was being her charming self, but if Kinnian has been taking out tesserae, maybe Mr. Klee was willing to give away flowers because nobody's buying these days.

"My parents didn't want anyone to know about the tesserae. I didn't even tell Gusset when we were together," Kinnian explains.

_Geez_. I can imagine what my mother will say when she finds out: "Rilee might as well marry a girl from the Seam for all she's worth." Or something to that effect. And that's precisely why Kinnian's parents kept their need for tesserae a secret. If my mother knew the Klee's business was near worthless, she might not let Kinnian and Rilee get married in the future. At the very least she'll make the world's worst mother-in-law. Grace would say she's already got that down.

"I would have done something," Rilee declares, putting a hand on her waist and pulling her closer.

"Like what?" Kinnian replies firmly, but with a grin. Her question reflects my own thoughts. What _could _he have done? Shared his allowance with them? We do have some that we could spare if Mom had a generous bone in her body, but we're not exactly raking in the profits. And with Miche getting married our resources are going to stretch. We don't have enough to rescue another family from a business failure. It's getting to the point that no one does.

"It's done." Kinnian puts a comforting hand on Rilee's cheek. "And like you said, our chances are good." Rilee leans down and plants a kiss on her shamelessly, desperately. The few remaining kids in line stare at them, but they don't notice. They're in their own world. I look away.

"Okay! Break it up!" the stout Peacekeeper shouts. Rilee and Kinnian jump apart at the command of the Peacekeeper, but hold tightly to the other's hand until the last possible second. Kinnian sits at our dinner table on Sundays, I overhear them laughing in Rilee's room at night, and I see Rilee leave for work with a content smile on his face even in the early morning, but I've never been more acutely jealous of my brother than I am in this moment. He has someone to lean on as we wait. He has someone who cares if his name is drawn.

And the odds of that happening are slim. Hell, the odds of Kinnian being picked with her four extra slips are pretty slim as well. How typical of us townies to be so appalled at the prospect of needing to take out tesserae when there are some kids who need to take out as many tesserae as there are members of their family. I never had the chance to ask how many entries Katniss has.

_Katniss._ I sigh internally.

I fight the impulse to search for her. I looked for her last year. I look for her every year. But if I did now, how pathetic would I be? That fight wasn't like the other ones. It was final. I thought about going to her house, but what would be the point? When you tell a girl you love her and she responds with, "Don't come back here" there isn't any strategy that can overcome that. I couldn't explain to anyone why I was miserable, so over the past week I went through the motions. Showed up for work, sat down at dinner, even went on another date—one that was orchestrated by Mom and was a complete disaster. To make it all worse, it's not only that I'm miserable, I'm angry. I know Katniss has feelings for me, but like Madge said, I can't force Katniss to do anything. I have to move on with my life.

The clock tower strikes two. The crowd settles to a hush as Mayor Undersee approaches the podium, but we can't help twitching now and again, anxious to cut to the main event. The mayor can't ignore tradition, but at least he has the good sense to try and get through things quickly, starting with the history of Panem. For the first time…ever, I actually try to listen to the words. Natural disasters, country in turmoil, the Capitol is our redeemer, etcetera, etcetera. It's just the kind of fun, light story you want to read on a glorious summer day. My attention span lasts all of four minutes. There was a reason I barely passed History.

Mindlessly, I scan the crowd, identifying the students I know and speculating on how other families handle this day. If they eat special foods like my family does or spend time at the park or drink at the tavern. I recognize Boothe in the row in front of me by the scruffiness of his hair that he probably forgot to comb this morning. That's what I should do today. I should go over to Boothe's and straighten things out between us. One step in getting back to my life.

"It is both a time for repentance and a time for thanks," the mayor drones on. Notice how he didn't actually name anything specific that we're thankful for. The mayor moves on to reciting the list of victors, of which there are two. Just as he removes his reading glasses a gruff, unintelligible shout interrupts him. A group of onlookers shuffle aside to make way for none other than our victor, Haymitch Abernathy. He stumbles onto the stage, falls into an open chair, and tries to tackle Effie Trinket in a hug. A few sympathetic souls actually clap for our only living victor, our very _drunk_ living victor. I bet he's walking over from Zeke's, District Twelve's only tavern. I'm pretty sure I saw him there last Saturday.

The mayor wipes his forehead with a handkerchief he pulled from his suit pocket. I can practically feel the cameras zooming in closer. Effie Trinket, who's dressed in all her Capitol finery, garish pink hair and a green suit that screams for attention amongst the muted palette of Twelve, pushes Haymitch away and bounces up to the podium after the mayor's introduction.

"Happy Hunger Games! And may the odds be_ ever_ in your favor!" Effie practically sings. She's acting like the kids picked are going to be shipped off on a luxurious vacation instead of being humiliated and tortured. I guess someone has to perform for the cameras. No one in Twelve will.

Effie yammers on about how honored she is to be acting on behalf of our district. I snort at that. If you like it so much, why don't you live here? No one wants to be stuck with us. It's kind of what we're known for. "Ladies first!" she announces shrilly. She reaches deeply into the mass of paper slips contained in the clear glass ball. The crowd settles into an absolute, startling silence. A couple rows in front of me Rilee stares to his left instead of the stage—locking eyes with Kinnian I assume. I try not to think of any name—as if doing so will cause some kind of jinx. But no amount of willpower stops the prayers that go out with each beat of my heart. _Don't let it be Kinnian_, I plead for Rilee. _And I may not have her, but…don't let it be Katniss._

"Primrose Everdeen!" Effie announces into the microphone.

For a brief, indeterminable moment, my entire body relaxes. It ends when a sick wave of recognition washes over me. My heart sinks. I must have heard wrong. _It can't be._

The crowd releases its breath in the form of hushed whispers. Whether or not they know Prim, everyone feels it's unfair when the twelve year olds are chosen. If they do know Prim; well, they're probably saying she doesn't have a chance. And they're right. Prim is soft and gentle; a healer in the making. The Games will eat her alive.

The girls clear a small path for the tribute, Prim, to pass through. I catch glimpses of her as she approaches the platform. She's sickly white with her hands clenched in fists at her sides, taking small, brave steps. And then I see Katniss. I might not have recognized her at first glance. Her hair is pulled back from her face and she's dressed in a blue dress I vaguely recognize. Her expression is vacant, and not in the same way as when she's trying to hide her emotions. Katniss is truly in shock.

"Prim!"

I flinch at the sound of Katniss' sudden cry for her sister, as do a couple people around me. Everyone was watching Prim, but all eyes are on Katniss now.

"Prim!" Katniss shouts again. She's a blur as she runs the short distance to the platform. She swings Prim behind her like a rag doll. "I volunteer," Katniss gasps. "I volunteer as tribute!"

My stomach joins my heart somewhere down by my feet.

Effie puts a hand to her chest and looks back at the mayor who displays a similar expression of confusion. I've seen during the telecasts, some districts, the ones with money to throw around, have special events and voting ceremonies to decide between dozens of kids who volunteer. They see participating as an honor. Insanity. As far as I know, District 12 doesn't have any such ceremonies, but it also never has any volunteers. Until today.

"Lovely!" says Effie encouragingly. "But I believe there's a small matter of introducing the reaping winner and then asking for volunteers, and if one does come forth then we, um…" she fumbles. So we _do_ have a ceremony? Who knew?

"What does it matter?" says the mayor. He swipes his handkerchief over his forehead repeatedly, and then he awkwardly stuffs it into his pants pocket. And for the first time I wonder what kind of toll this takes on him. It must be hard to send your own citizens to the Capitol year after year. Nothing like sending your own family members, but it would be a strain all the same. "What does it matter? Let her come forward."

"No, Katniss! No! You can't go!" Prim shrieks as she wraps herself around Katniss' middle.

_Yes! Stop her! _I think. And I know later I'll feel guilt for having the thought, but right now I'm all panic.

"Prim, let go," Katniss says harshly. Prim holds tighter to her sister. Hard, choking hiccups upset her tiny frame. "Let go!" Katniss repeats. Prim refuses to relent, and suddenly Gale Hawthorne appears next to Katniss, grabs Prim, and hauls her off toward the surrounding crowd, still bawling. Just as suddenly, it's done. Katniss is on the stage. Standing beside the mayor. Standing beside Effie Trinket who looks even more insane as she talks animatedly at Katniss. I've always understood this was a possibility, that she could be chosen. Katniss hinted that she had fears about it as well. But to see it in action is like animating a cruel nightmare. My head feels as if it's been packed with sand. I see their lips move, but I don't hear the words.

_Katniss_. _My girl_. _A tribute in the Hunger Games. _

Effie lifts up her hands in a dramatic motion. I must have missed some grand announcement; however, the crowd does not react. No one applauds or rings out a cheer or a jest. There are small movements in my peripheral vision. I slowly turn around, my back to the stage and Katniss. I see it done by Kinnian's father, by Boothe's mother, by citizen after citizen. Three fingers pressed against lips with a small wave, a kiss farewell. Piercing jabs penetrate my lungs with each breath. I twist back toward the stage with my eyes toward the ground. With my hand shaking, I press my fingers to my lips and look at her. Katniss is somehow strong and fearless. Untouchable. I lift my hand to her in respect and love as others have done.

It's not enough. Not from me.

"Look at her. Look at this one!" Haymitch hollers, interrupting the solemn quiet. He launches up out of his chair, an impressive maneuver for someone so blatantly trashed. "I like her!" He throws a heavy arm around Katniss. "Lots of…" Haymitch's face contorts as he searches for the word. "Spunk!" he cheers. "More than you!" He leans away from Katniss and staggers to the front edge of the platform. "More than you!" he shouts, pointing a meaty finger directly into a camera. The cameraman moves backward. Haymitch in his drunken stupor mistakenly follows and careens right off the stage at the feet of the senior girls. When he doesn't move or moan or vomit everyone can assume he blacked out. Up on stage the mayor directs some Peacekeepers inside the Justice Building. No one checks whether or not Haymitch is breathing. The Peacekeepers return with a white stretcher and work on rolling our proud victor onto it.

Katniss hasn't moved an inch despite the mayhem going on around her. Her eyes are steady, staring off into the distance beyond the square, to the woods.

"What an exciting day!" Effie Trinket says to guide attention from Haymitch and back to her. For a moment I think she's broken her neck, but then I realize it's her hair that's not on straight. "But more excitement to come! It's time to choose our boy tribute!" she warbles on with her hand attached to the pink curls on her head. The gesture strikes me with a perverse curiosity about what in under the hair…er…wig. Effie doesn't waste time with the dramatics. She picks up the first slip she touches and sidesteps back to the microphone. "Peeta Mellark!"

My schoolmate on my left and the one on my right both take a step back, as if Effie asked the boy tribute to step forward and everyone is playing a trick on me to make it appear like I volunteered. There's no prank. There's merely a name. And it's mine. Five slips out of thousands. _And she picked mine._

I'm surprised when I don't throw up my special reaping day brunch right here in the square.

Faces stare at me expectantly. I need to move. That's what I need to do. That's what a tribute does when his name is called. I've seen this before. I know what happens. So, I walk. I go through the motions. Even though I've known the kids surrounding me my whole life, even though one of them is my brother, they're unrecognizable smudges of color now. And then I'm on the stage; close enough to Effie Trinket to see that the hair left uncovered by her wig is silvery gray. God knows why I fixate on that.

She blabs something into the microphone. It's in the deafening silence that follows that I realize she must have asked for volunteers. There's no one for me, including Rilee. He has Kinnian to take care of now. As for friends; well, I'm well-liked, used to be anyway, but not _that_ well-liked. Satisfied, Effie trots to an open chair while Mayor Undersee stands behind the podium once again. Now comes the Treaty of Treason—a long, boring document listing the general rules of the Games and the reason we're contracted to take part, both the tributes and the viewers. Yet all I can think is, _I'm going to die. _I won't go home after this and bicker with Rilee for the last of the fresh bread. I won't see Miche get married. I won't watch the Games on television with my parents. I'm in the Games. And not long from now, I'll be dead.

When the mayor finishes, he motions for Katniss and I to shake hands._ Katniss_. My brain pushed out all my concerns for her after Effie read my name. What a calloused thing for the guy who claims to have loved her for a decade to do. For now, I'll blame it on the shock. Her hand is cool in mine, but familiar. I never thought I would feel her touch again. But like this? As district partners in a death match? How can I…how can she…I can't finish that thought. Katniss' eyes remain astoundingly steady, always steady. I try to be like she is.

We're immediately marched into the Justice Building by Peacekeepers the second the anthem of Panem ends. I've been in here a few times on school trips when I was younger. It's not much to see—mostly offices for town officials. However, there is this mural on the way in depicting each of the industries of every district. All except Thirteen. That portion was painted over roughly with thick rose-colored paint that doesn't quite match the faded walls. A reminder of its obliteration.

I attempt to keep an eye on Katniss, but we're immediately separated. I'm left alone in a room with a fuzzy apple green loveseat. This is where I'll say goodbye to my family. Why not let me spend the hour at home? Or in the bakery? Maybe they worry a tribute might try to escape. Or kill himself.

With that cheery thought my parents and brothers shuffle into the room all at once. We stand on opposite sides for more than a few seconds, my farewell hour silently ticking away. This is my _family_. We should have more to say, but they don't know how to deal and neither do I. How does anyone deal with attending their own funeral while they're still alive? That's what this feels like.

I don't know if it's the shock that finally subsides or my family's sad inability of to express emotion, but my chest seizes up and I collapse onto the creaky couch. Hot tears impossible to hold back spring up swiftly.

"Look at that. He's already falling to pieces."

Choking back a sob, I cover my face with my hands. If anything could make this whole getting chucked into the arena business more uncomfortable for my mother, it's me crying about it. I'm vaguely aware of someone sitting next to me and an arm slinging around my shoulders.

"Son, it'll be alright," Dad rasps while patting my shoulder, not all that reassuringly. _Alright? How is it going to be alright? _I can't take on those kids who've been training like assassins since they could walk. I don't know how to use a weapon. One faulty bow and arrow lesson is not going to cut it. Dad continues to pat my back. Miche appears in my blurry vision on my other side.

"I can't believe it, Peeta," Miche murmurs, gripping the fabric of his pants awkwardly. Of course. This wasn't supposed to happen to _us_. "Grace sends her best."

"I can't believe I'm going to miss your wedding," I choke out. It's an odd thing to regret or think about right now, but I will regret missing it. I witnessed practically every milestone of his and Grace's relationship from holding hands on the front lawn of school to offering support on reaping day. I'm glad Miche will have her in the coming weeks. He doesn't handle the Games well. He usually listens from the kitchen while rolling out experimental bread recipes during the broadcast.

"It won't be anything big. A toasting at her parents' house probably," Miche says. Mom snorts indignantly. "Grace doesn't even like cake that much."

I laugh through my runny nose unexpectedly. Miche half smiles at me. He never makes realizes when he makes a joke.

"It's an absolute travesty!" Mom abruptly barks. All three of us on the couch look up at her. She begins to pace back and forth in front of the door and in front of Rilee who's neither moved nor said anything since entering.

Dad throws out an appeal. "My dear—"

"Well, it is!" Mom interrupts, coming to a standstill. Her face is flushed red, but not because she's on the brink of tears. "Why is _my_ son reaped? We're overrun with Seam children and they take a boy from a respectable family!"

Yeah, that's my mother. I get chosen and she somehow makes it about her prejudice against the lower class. If there's anything I don't care to listen to right now, it's that.

"Then again, maybe District Twelve will finally have a winner," Mom says thoughtfully.

_Wait. What?_

"She's a survivor, that one."

"Silla! Enough!" Dad snaps. His hand grips my collar tightly; however, I don't think he realizes he's doing it. Dad _never_ snaps, not at Mom. I've watched her push him around my entire life and not once has he ever stood up to her. Mom opens her mouth like she's going to carry on, but Dad cuts in. "That's enough," he repeats firmly. We're all mutually shocked when she actually closes her mouth with her lips set in a thin, fuming line. She plops into a matching green chair set against the wall, folds her arms, crosses her legs, looks as mad as hell, but is otherwise blessedly quiet. Never thought I'd see the day.

Dad sighs and releases his hold on my collar. He angles me toward him. His eyes are tight with worry and more than likely, fear. "Peeta, there's no real way to prepare for this, not for any of us." He gestures to my brothers and mother. Sorry, Dad. But you can't blame Mom's behavior for being unprepared for reaping day. There's too much evidence against her. "I can say you're strong and smart, but I think you already know that," he continues. "What I want you to remember is that _I'm_ proud of you and always have been. And when you're…" He pauses to clear his throat.

_Just spit it out_, I want to say. When I'm killing or about to be killed?

"When you're out there…just…do yourself proud."

I swallow at the lump in my throat. That's not the kind of thing you say to someone about to be put in a battle to the death. Forget my pride. How am I supposed to live with myself knowing I've murdered someone, which I'll have to do if I have any hope of winning? I don't have time to consider it now, but I will grant my Dad as much peace as I'm able. He deserves it. "I'll try, Dad," I reply.

He stands and I do the same; my knees a little shaky. Dad hugs me tightly. I haven't received or expected affection like this from him in…I don't know how long…and even in these dire circumstances I find it a bit awkward. Miche hugs me briefly as well. Then he steps back and looks to Rilee expectantly. Rilee hesitates before he steps forward. Maybe he thinks I'm angry that he didn't volunteer for me. No one would blame him. No one would have given it a second thought if not for what Katniss did for Prim. I hold my arms out to him a little, so he knows there's no bad blood between us, and he finally moves.

"Give 'em hell, little brother," Rilee says next to my ear. His life will change the most out of all of my family members as a result of today's events. Rilee won't go live with Kinnian or serve as an apprentice to her father. My parents will need him at the bakery again, which won't be a bad life, but he'll always know why he's there and it won't be because it was his choice. We're all learning about having our choices taken away today.

"There are some friends of yours out there. Would you like to see them?" Dad asks.

"Yes, the grocer's boy is out there," Mom says bitingly. "What's his name? Stall? Cart?"

"Boothe?"

"Whatever," she spits out. Huh, so that's where I get that.

"Sure. Yeah," I say.

Rilee walks out first, cringing at the sight of the Peacekeeper standing guard outside the door. Miche and Dad follow him, and then there's only me and my mother. She stands, holding her chin high. There are cameras out there still. She won't allow them to capture any weakness on her part.

"Mom?" I call out before she steps through the threshold. She looks over her shoulder and for a split second her expression shifts, from one of coldness to one of regret. That's what I think I see. It may only be what I hope I see.

"Good luck," she declares. The door closes. I fall back onto the couch lean my elbows on my knees. I barely have a moment to take a breath when the door bursts open a second time and Boothe tumbles in.

"Peeta! I—" He trips over the plush carpeting on his way across the room. His eyes are red and he needs to wipe his nose. The kid is a mess, like always. "Dammit, man. I'm so sorry," he wheezes. It's been a month since Boothe and I last spoke, the fault of which is mine. We're not acting under ideal circumstances, but I'd hate myself if we never had a chance to clear the air.

"I was an asshole. I'm sorry."

Boothe leans back and his eyes squint in confusion. For someone who gave me the silent treatment for weeks you'd think he'd appreciate an apology. "Who gives a fuck about that anymore?" he croaks.

I lean my forehead in my palm. I can't get my head on straight. One second I'm saying a final goodbye to my family and contemplating my own death and the next I'm back to the everyday business of my normal life. And Boothe has a point. Do the events that have happened prior to today matter anymore?

I'm aware of Boothe drawing closer to me. He digs into his pants pocket and when he pulls out his hand several wrappers, an empty key ring, and a smattering of sunflower seeds shower the pristine carpet. "Take this with you," he says, holding out his most prized possession, his red metal box cutters. His is a hand-me-down of course, and a pain because you need a screwdriver to open it in order to change the blade. Boothe received it for his ninth birthday and to him and his brothers—who unpack groceries nearly every day—it's a big deal. But I doubt it's going to stand up well against guys wielding swords and mases.

"They're not going to let me take a pair of box cutters into the arena."

He grabs my hand and presses it into my palm. "Take them for good luck then. And you have to give them back when you win."

"When I win. Right." I shake my head dejectedly.

"You can. It's not impossible. There have been more unlikely victors," Boothe practically shouts. Haymitch comes to mind. That girl who won on accident a few years back. The occasional tribute that pretends to be weak in the training then turns out to be a calculating psychopath turns up now and again. It's extraordinarily disorienting to think I'll be compared to them in any capacity. Who am I going to be pegged as?

Still staring down at the carpet, which now seems more the color of mold than apples the more I stare at it, I notice Boothe kick around some of the garbage from his pocket with his oversized boots. "What are you going to do about…you know? The girl?" he questions, his voice quiet.

If I were in Boothe's place I'd probably ask the same thing, especially since Katniss was part of the reason he and I stopped speaking. My mind can barely wrap around the idea that I've been reaped, therefore I lack the ability to process anything beyond that. "You know, if they find this on me they'll probably confiscate them," I say, changing the subject. I flip the box cutters once then toss it to him. "Call it a weapon."

Boothe almost drops it when he snags it from the air. Coordinated he is not. "It's way too dull to be used as a weapon."

"I wouldn't want you to lose it. You can't work without it."

Boothe reluctantly slides it back into his pocket. It _clinks_ against something metal.

A knock at the door warns us that a Peacekeeper will escort Boothe out soon. He quickly and haphazardly throws one arm around my shoulder, his pockets jingling the entire time. "Be careful," he says at the same time the Peacekeeper informs us it's time's up. I wave goodbye to my best friend.

I spend the next few seconds guessing who else might be out there. Dad mentioned a few of my friends were waiting. Who besides Boothe would actually step up?

And then Gale Hawthorne graces the room. He did not make my list of guesses.

"What the hell are you doing here?" I say coolly. The threat of the cameras keeps my voice low. They might be recording these goodbyes for all I know. I can't lose control. Or could that be a good strategy? If I start ripping into Hawthorne before I've even left my home district maybe it will make me seem tough. Worth a try, right?

Gale stands proudly, as if his presence is to be expected. "Saying goodbye," he replies.

"Get out," I snap. As appealing as clocking Hawthorne is, I'd rather he go away. Our last meeting did not exactly make us great friends.

He folds his arms over his chest, making a point that he's not leaving. "I have something to say concerning Katniss."

"You've said more than enough concerning Katniss and me." If Gale wasn't the direct reason for Katniss dumping me, then he sure as hell wasn't doing anything to stop it. He harassed my brother, threatened me, kissed Katniss, bought into rumors, and he possibly convinced her to break up with me. There's nothing he could say to undo it and I'm sure he has no desire to do so.

Gale takes a few steps through the room, observing the flower-patterned wallpaper and wasting my time. "You asked her if she was pretending," he says flatly and without looking at me. "She never answered you."

So he came to relive the good old times? _Great._ What a nice guy. Except, he's speaking about a particular time he wasn't present for. And it's not something Katniss would talk about freely. That much about her I do know. "You followed us?" I deduce.

Gale sniffs. There's an attractive bouquet of roses in the corner, but mostly the room smells musty, like it hasn't been used since this time last year. "I went to her house that day to check up on her," Gale admits. "I knew she was planning on breaking it off, but she said you didn't show that day."

"Got held up at the bakery," I say as explanation. Then I remember he admitted to following us so he already heard it and didn't need me to repeat it.

"Right." He sniffs again.

So, Gale knew Katniss planned on breaking up with me. More than likely he had a hand in the whole decision-making process, but he still felt compelled to wait for us to leave the house and tag along? "You followed us to make sure she went through with it."

Gale shrugs absently. He turns around to face me, but doesn't meet me square in the eye. Even without his confirmation I know it's the truth.

This whole mess feels so unbelievable I nearly laugh. Forget that I was chosen for the Games today and have to spend my goodbye talking to the guy that's probably happy to see me go. I'm laughing thinking about Gale cowering in the grass in the Meadow like a rabbit…or a rat. "You've got some fucking nerve, you know that?" I say, rubbing at a tight spot on the back of my neck. I should have held onto those box cutters. Dull as they are they'd come in useful right now. "Katniss and I are none of your business."

"She's my friend," he replies automatically.

"You're so full of shit. You wanted her and you were going to do anything you had to do to get her."

Gale drops his arms to his sides, his hands in fists, like he's issuing a challenge. "How is that any different from what you did?"

"I never told her to end her friendship with you," I say sharply. "We barely talked about you. I'm guessing that wasn't the case when you'd go on your hunting trips together. How often was I the topic of discussion?"

The tightness in his shoulders lessens and he actually looks away. Seems like I hit a sore point. And I want to take pleasure in it. I want to feel some kind of thrill in seeing Gale suffer just as much as I've been suffering for the past week. With a sigh I lean back against the couch, resting my elbow on the armrest. As much I was want to feel some satisfaction, I only feel numb. Besides, Hawthorne doesn't need me to cause him pain. His best friend was taken by the Games. He _is_ miserable.

However, as long as I have one last chance, I have a question for him. "What did you say to her?" I ask quietly.

"Only what she's been telling me since we met," Gale murmurs, stuffing his hands into his pockets.

_Nice. Vague. Goes with the whole aloof teenage criminal persona. _

"It doesn't matter anymore."

How many times am I going to hear that phrase today? "Then why are you here?" I reply. Hawthorne didn't come to apologize nor has he made a request. What does he want from me? Then I recall the first thing he said before I got caught up in the spying aspect. He mentioned his observation that Katniss never confirmed or denied that she was pretending, or in other words, she didn't deny having feelings for me. If Hawthorne put his pride aside enough to come here and talk to me then he must be unsure, _really_ unsure, of what the truth is. The sad thing is I'm not sure either. And I suppose I now know the answer to that other question. Yes, the Games have changed everything for the future, but what has happened before still matters. "Gale. Katniss didn't say whether she was pretending or not, and I don't believe she was, but that's not a lot for a guy to go on. She never said she had feelings for me. Hell, she doesn't like me all that much."

"Yeah." Gale half smirks for a moment. His face is all scowl again in less than a blink. "You know what she told me? 'I don't know how I feel. I can't know because we live _here_.' "

Huh. That's different from the list of reasons I got. Katniss didn't mention doubting her feelings; she just refused to admit she had any. I also got the added bonus of class differences. "Thanks for the bread," I mutter.

Gale lifts an eyebrow. "What?"

"That's what she said to me that night. 'Thank you for the bread.' " Gale lowers his brow, but doesn't seem to comprehend the significance of that statement. I suppose that's more of an inside…well, joke isn't the right word, but I can attest to how much it hurt. "I'm starting to think once Katniss puts you into a role in her life that's all you'll ever be. I'm the baker. You're the hunting partner. You can't change it."

"Maybe," Hawthorne replies grimly. I can't say that this conversation comforts either of us, but at least we know where we stand with one another.

_Oh God. Am I actually bonding with Gale Hawthorne?_

"Don't hold her back," he says abruptly. Severity returns to his voice. "She's strong and talented. She knows how to survive, and she can't afford any additional weight."

_And by additional weight, he means, dead weight. Nice of him to hold back. _ "I think you should leave."

"Peeta—"

"I heard what you said," I interrupt. "There isn't much time left. Katniss will want to say goodbye to you." With barely another glance Gale exits. Feeling oddly wound up I start pacing the tiny room. What does he think? That I want to put a strain on Katniss' chances of winning? Of course I don't. I could never hurt her and I know I'm not as skilled as she is in survival techniques. She has a lot more going for her than most tributes from District Twelve. More than me. But how can I…how can I help her…or not help her…and not get myself killed? We can't both win. Then again, who am I kidding? I'll be lucky to get through the first ten minutes.

The door props open for what I assume is the final time because a Peacekeeper fills the threshold. I pause and prepare for instructions. "Five minutes," the Peacekeeper says gruffly. He shoves in a visitor. My smallest one so far and the one I'm most happy to see. My little wingman.

"Peeta!" Prim cries. She hobbles across the carpet with open arms that she tightly wraps around my waist. I hug her skinny little shoulders that shake with the force of her sobs.

"Hey, little wingman. Don't cry."

Prim looks up, her chin pressing into me. "W-what did you call me?" she asks, her voice watery.

There's no way I can explain that in the time we have left. "Nothing," I mumble. "Try not to cry."

"I c-can't believe this is h-happening." Prim stammers around hiccups. It makes my heart ache. Katniss and Prim mean the world to one another. And Katniss wouldn't be in this position if Prim hadn't been chosen. This must be incredibly confusing and heartbreaking for her. Carefully, I guide her to the couch. It's only when we sit down I notice a familiar paper bag clenched in her hand.

"Did my Dad give you cookies?" She gazes at the bag and nods. "Remember what I told you. Don't eat them all at once." I try to smile at her, but her lip quivers anyway. So instead, I wrap and arm around her and let her lean on my shoulder, tears and all.

"You don't have to promise me anything," Prim whispers so quietly I barely hear her. The lump in my throat returns with full force. Prim has more right than anyone else to demand something from me, but she doesn't. She can't. It's not who she is. I understand fully why Katniss could never let harm come to her sister. We should all be bound to protect such goodness, especially in our world.

"Prim—"

"I just wanted to say goodbye," Prim cuts in. She pushes her hair away from her face and takes a deep breath to settle herself somewhat. "And I'll m-miss you."

"Well, you better keep your promise to me. The one about guys? Watch out for that Rory kid." I tweak her nose playfully.

Prim laughs a little, but most of it comes out as a cough. "I will." She stares up at me and I'm glad my last visual memory of District Twelve is her shiny, blue eyes. "Thank you. For everything."

The door opens and instinctively I hold tighter to Prim, but thankfully it's her mother instead of a Peacekeeper. After he shoved Prim in here Mrs. Everdeen must want to avoid scaring her daughter further. "Time to go, Prim," she orders, her voice oddly calm despite the obvious signs of tears on her face.

Prim stands obediently. She pecks my cheek, leans toward my ear, and cups her hand over her mouth and my ear like she's telling me a secret on the schoolyard. "Don't give up on her, Peeta," she whispers.

The Peacekeeper wastes no time after Mrs. Everdeen whisks her daughter away. Per his instructions I follow him back down the corridor. Several Peacekeepers loiter in the hall, hands resting on the weapons at their waists. There's a gruff command issued from the doorway of a red-patterned room. Everyone looks over at the commotion.

"Don't let them starve!" a voice rings out. Katniss.

"I won't! You know I won't! Katniss, remember I—" A door slams, cutting off the second voice. Katniss is thrust in line behind me.

I don't see her again until we arrive at the train station, in a _car_. I spent my time there considering how far I could get if I somehow shoved the driver out and drove the car until the fuel ran out. I've never driven a car before, but it didn't seem that complicated, and it's not like I'm going to run into another car. Unfortunately, I don't get a chance to test this theory because within ten minutes we're at the station and attacked by cameras and reporters. We're pushed through the chaos and told to stand in the doorway of the train car. They shout questions that neither Katniss nor I answer. If anything, Katniss appears bored by their enthusiasm, but to be honest, I try not to look in her direction much or too many conflicting emotions will cross my face.

When the door finally closes and the train begins to churn with movement, Effie Trinket appears beside us, her wig finally on straight once again and wearing a different outfit. This one is lilac from top to bottom. "Welcome! Welcome!" she sings pleasantly. "Let's get you settled!" She escorts us to our rooms and tells us to change into whatever we like for dinner. We're not only provided a bedroom, but a bathroom and a giant closet with a couch in it. I don't really need a shower, I'm clean enough, but I exchange my slightly ill-fitting clothes for a pair of dark blue pants and the first shirt I find without a collar.

I watch the landscape whip by for a few minutes. It's hypnotically peaceful. The way it sucks the noise out of my brain is a welcome relief. I should be planning, figuring out a strategy of survival. However, it's not only my own survival I need to be concerned about. I also have to think about Katniss. In fact, everybody is concerned about it. Gale ordered me not to weigh her down, Boothe wondered how I would handle it, and Prim said…not to give up on her. Not protect her or help her win. _Don't give up on her_. What do I make of that request? How do I compromise how we left things with this new impossible task before us? For god's sake she never wanted to see me again! It would help if we were at least on speaking terms. Restless, I leave my room, hoping Katniss will be out there.

She isn't. Instead, I find paunchy, greasy-haired Haymitch digging through every cabinet and drawer in the sitting compartment. When he slides open one particular door above a sink he pulls out a bottle filled with clear liquid and makes a noise of delight.

"Stocking up?" I question, alerting Haymitch to my presence.

Haymitch twists around with a bottle in each hand. When he sees me he lifts them up and smiles like a kid with candy. "Just enjoying the spoils of the Capitol," he says, sliding both bottles into the pockets of a grimy suit jacket. Effie won't approve of that piece of clothing at all. "And Trinket likes to clean the place out. Need to keep one step ahead."

I never would have pegged Effie for outsmarting anyone, let alone Haymitch. He finds two more brown bottles in the cabinet, slides one into a pants pocket, and unscrews the other. "I think you're on your way," I observe.

"You're not kidding, kid." He raises the bottle to toast to…I don't know. A guy like him doesn't need something to toast to. Then he tilts it back and swallows a drink. His face pinches up. Must be better stuff than what they sell at Zeke's. "Sorry I missed your drawing," he says between drinks. Oh yeah. He'd already taken a nose-dive off the stage when my name was called. "What's your name?"

"Peeta Mellark."

"You from town?"

"Yeah."

He takes a longer drink, peering at me through narrowed eyes simultaneously. The movement of the train makes him sway, but amazingly enough, he stays standing. "You look familiar. Where have I seen you?"

"My parents own the bakery." I shrug. Haymitch doesn't come in often. Mom both loves and hates it when he does. He usually comes in not looking much better than this, but he also never sticks around long enough to get his change.

"That's not it," he grumbles, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Somehow, I don't think this is how most meet-and-greets between mentors and tributes go. "You were with Margaret Undersee last…what day was that? Friday? Saturday?" He rubs a finger over his eye.

_Margaret?_

"Now why would you take a lovely young waif like her to seedy place like Zeke's?"

_Oh. Madge._ He's referring to my date with Madge that was set up by my Mom and mayor Undersee. I'm surprised he noticed we were there what with his face plastered to the bar. "It's a long story." I sigh. I take responsibility for my actions that day, but unfortunately I wasn't making the best decisions that day. Madge was understanding.

"Hey, if the mayor's daughter is your girl you ought to let the world know. They'll eat that shit up," Haymitch says with a grimace. Before I grasp his meaning, he walks by me, nearly wobbling, and announces "I'm taking a nap," on his way out.

Madge? My girl? Not quite. After our date there isn't much chance of that happening. Wonder what Haymitch would say if I told him I'm in love with my district partner and she dumped me the week before the reaping. If he's ever sober enough to actually listen.

I spend the rest of my break wandering the train. Besides the sitting area there's a dining car, plenty of bedrooms, a room lined with wood and filled with steam, a kitchen of course, and a room bursting with clothing. It's all fascinating, but nothing I couldn't live without. Eventually I retreat back to the sitting room because of the constant interruptions by the attendants. They're cheerfully willing to assist me in any way they can, but the way they stare at me creeps me out. Capitol citizens are nuts about the Games and their victors, borderline obsessive. I don't want to be around them—or anyone who truly regards the Games as entertainment—in general.

Before long, Effie tells me it's suppertime. I sit alone in the dining compartment while she fetches Katniss. The dishes rattle with the flow of the train. Effie returns with Katniss in tow. She's changed out of her blue dress to something utilitarian and comfortable. She sits quietly in the chair next to me, keeping her eyes artfully away from mine. Some things never change.

"Where's Haymitch?" Effie chirps as she shakes out a napkin swan to place in her lap.

"Last time I saw him, he said he was going to take a nap," I answer. Effie is clearly relieved. Just wait till she checks the liquor cabinet.

Servers swoop in with bowls of soup that smell amazing. And all of the sudden I have an appetite again. The trend continues on through the rest of the meal. A new course arrives before I finish the previous one. Effie tells us to save room, but it's all so intensely good. I rarely miss a meal, but my meals are nothing like this. Katniss reacts the same way, by shoveling it in and savoring every bite. It ends with a massive chocolate cake layered with raspberries.

"At least you two have decent manners" Effie comments somewhere between the salads and the honeydew melon paired with sharp, smelly cheese. "The pair last year ate everything with their hands like a couple of savages. It completely upset my digestion." After that Katniss eats the rest of her dinner with her fingers and wipes them on the tablecloth. Effie makes a face through the whole thing.

I seriously begin to regret that piece of cake when Effie escorts us back to the sitting compartment. It's the second, no third, time today I have the urge to throw up and the wavering of the train does not help. Katniss and I sit on opposite ends of a sofa. Sitting down is the key. Sitting and focusing on anything but my stomach.

Effie Trinket grants me a distraction in the form of reaping day recaps. A panel opens up in the wall revealing a thin television as large as the screens they set up in the alleyways so those who can't fit in the square during the reaping can still watch the action. One by one the winners are chosen. Our competition. Watching the broadcast has never been enjoyable, but now it's pointedly unsettling. Katniss tenses up near the end when a little girl from District Eleven is reaped. I would hold her if Effie wasn't here, if I still had a right to hold Katniss.

The footage of our reaping is the most dramatic, even without the large crowds or the expensive fanfare. The commentators are stumped by Katniss' brave action in volunteering for her sister and by the crowd's refusal to applaud. They're saved by Haymitch's appearance and following drunken mishaps, groaning with delight.

Weirdly enough, out of the three of us Effie enjoys the replay the least. Crooked wigs don't look great on camera. "Your mentor has a lot to learn about presentation. A lot about televised behavior," she says snappishly.

I laugh, unable to hold back. "He was drunk," I say. And with the liquor cabinet he's carrying in his pockets he's likely to be drunk for the rest of the trip. "He's drunk every year."

"Every day," Katniss adds, a small smile playing on her lips. She glances at me and meets my eyes for the first time today. The first time since I last saw her in the Meadow. The laughter adds life to her eyes, but at the same time they're clouded with uncertainty. We hold one another's gaze for several seconds until Effie's shrill voice causes us to jump back.

"Yes. How odd you two find it amusing," she chastises. "You know your mentor is your lifeline to the world in these Games. The one who advises you, lines up your sponsors, and dictates the presentation of any gifts. Haymitch can well be the difference between your life and your death!"

As if on cue, Haymitch stumbles into the compartment, using the wall to stay upright. "I miss supper?" he slurs. Then he vomits all over the floor and slides down the wall into the puddle. His clothes mysteriously do not _clink_ with the sounds of bottles hitting together. Did he finish off all that liquor?

"So laugh away!" Effie yells. She snakes by Haymitch and his pool of sick back to her quarters.

Katniss and I stare at the sight for a few moments. This is our mentor. Our mentor who is supposed to advise us and act as the difference between our lives and our death? Or so Effie says. We are beyond screwed. Why should anything be easy?

Somehow, Haymitch regains his tentative hold on consciousness and attempts to stand, or at least get out of the vomit. "I tripped?" he asks. "Smells bad."

No kidding. Without hesitation both Katniss and I grab an arm and stand him up. We both know this guy brings it on himself, but he is our mentor. He's all we've got. "Let's get you back to your room," I say. "Clean you up a bit." We pretty much drag Haymitch back to his room. Four bottles rest on his nightstand—two of which are empty. How did he manage to wake up from his nap? Instead of laying him out on the bed I motion to the bathroom. Having done this once with Rilee on the night of his eighteenth birthday I decide it's best to get him rinsed off first. We dump him in the tub. Turn on the water. Haymitch stirs, but lacks the energy to move.

I turn to Katniss who, for all her bravery, is horrified by the sight. "It's okay. I'll take it from here."

Katniss visibly relaxes. "All right," she says. "I can send one of the Capitol people to help you."

"No. I don't want them," I reply. Haymitch doesn't need any additional rumors spread about him and those Capitol people would jump at the chance to be interviewed by the media.

Katniss nods and leaves the room. Looking back upon Haymitch, I sigh. Haymitch better appreciate this, if he remembers any of it tomorrow. I untie and slide off his boots and socks. Then I push his legs completely into the tub. I peel off several layers of clothes, throwing it all into the corner of the bathroom. Haymitch gurgles occasionally throughout the process. When he's fully rinsed, I pull every towel from the closet and pat him as dry as I can. Then I begin the arduous task of lugging him back to his bed. I'm careful to lay him on his front with his head turned to the side. I even fill a glass with water and leave it on his nightstand. Then, for added effect I pour out the two full bottles of liquor and refill them with water as well. Hopefully, he'll blame Effie.

I return to my compartment with my shirt soaked and all of me stinking of Haymitch. A quick shower and another change of clothes are in order, or just a change of shorts and a t-shirt. I climb into bed feeling exhausted and intent on sleeping. The sheets are incredibly soft and the mattress is one big pillow. My body longs for rest but my brain won't turn off. I go back and forth between thinking about tomorrow's events, what the Capitol will be like, to thinking about what I'd be doing if I were home. Plus, my stomach still doesn't feel so hot.

A soft knock barely louder than the whirring sound of the train startles me from my non-sleep. Probably an attendant wanting to ask if I need anything yet again. I pull the covers up to my neck and lie silently, hoping they'll take the hint.

They don't. They knock again; this time a fraction louder. I throw the blankets off with an aggravated grunt, stalk to the door, and wrench it open. In place of an attendant, Katniss stands outside in the door in a dim pool of light. She's wrapped up in a shiny white robe that ends at her knees, which leads me to immediately remember that I'm not wearing any pants. Too late now. "Katniss?" I ask. Her fingers twitch and she glances down the hall, like she's playing lookout. "Is something wrong?"

She reaches for the slack ends of the tie around her waist and squeezes it. It's been a while since I've seen her do that. "How is Haymitch?" Katniss asks.

"Out cold." I snort.

"I'm sorry. I should have helped."

I shake my head. No one should have to see that much of Haymitch if they can help it. "Don't worry about it." Katniss doesn't say anything more about it. Her eyes bounce from place to place, down the hall, at the doorframe; everywhere but directly at my face or below my waist. "Are you alright?"

"Fine," she replies in a clipped voice. The movement of the train causes her to waver, but not with the same lack of balance as it caused Haymitch. Surrounded by glossy surfaces and sparkling lights, wrapped in expensive clothes from the Capitol, I've never seen Katniss so out of her element. It reminds me that she's a sixteen year old girl. And that despite our last encounter I'm the closest thing she has to a friend here.

"Would you like to come in?" Stepping to the side, I pull the door open wider. Katniss walks through in answer. When the door automatically closes the room is cast in darkness. I quickly fumble for a button next to my headboard that turns on a pair of wall sconces. Katniss stands motionless at the foot of the bed, hugging her arms to herself. I consciously keep several feet between us. "How are you doing with all this?" I wave my hand at nothing in particular.

She swallows thickly. "Okay. I think." Knowing her, she's already got a strategy in mind that will take her all the way to the end of the Games. I won't judge her for it either. God knows I should be asking her for advice. "How are you?" she asks. I like to think she says it as more than an afterthought.

"Same." I shrug. Had a bit of a breakdown back at the Justice Building, and I am more or less scared shitless, but no reason to let her in on that.

The long pause of silence that falls between us reminds me of our very first meeting months ago. When the best response I could get out of her was a blank stare and a blink. We've been through so much since then and I can't ignore it. As much as I might want to take her in my arms and grasp for the comfort we both seek, her decision to break up stands. The emotionally numbing events of the day soothed any anger I had about it; however, the Games haven't undone everything. Whatever her reason for knocking on my door tonight I'll wait and listen for patiently, but I won't make any assumptions. As far as I know, we're district partners. And that's all.

Katniss is quiet for a long time. Oddly enough, I've grown comfortable with it. When I notice a change in the pattern of her breath, I know she's ready to speak.

"I had to do it, Peeta," she says in one quick breath. Her face crumples. "I couldn't let her…I couldn't let Prim—"

"Hey, you don't have to explain it to me." I rush up beside her, touch her elbow, and guide her to sit on the end of the bed. Much like I did with her sister. Would I have volunteered for Rilee in the same way Katniss volunteered for Prim? I honestly can't say. And I'd be lying if I were to say his inaction to save me didn't affect me somewhere in my subconscious. Yet, with Prim there's significance in saving her.

I lean onto my knees and clasp my hands together while Katniss calms her breathing. I watch her bare toes dig into the thick carpeting.

"I wonder what they're doing right now," she says.

I know what my family is doing. Dad is asleep on the couch. He never makes it to the end of the broadcast and Mom never prods him awake to tell him to go to bed. Miche is snoring alongside him. They're used to going to bed before nine. Mom added her own commentary to the recap as it aired. She'll place a bet in the morning. And Rilee snuck out sometime after dinner to meet up with friends. That's what they did last year, anyway. However, to give Katniss some peace of mind I say, "Worrying about us. Trying to sleep."

"Your dad gave me some cookies."

"And you accepted them?" I ask incredulously. She nods. Damn. My dad's got better game than I have. "My mother told me District Twelve might have a winner this year." Katniss looks up at me as skeptically as I looked at her seconds ago. "She said, 'she's a survivor that one.' "

Katniss catches on after a beat. She jerks her eyes back to the floor. "I hate your mother," she says unapologetically.

_Yeah, well. Sure. People don't call you a witch for nothing. _I wonder if she'll put any money down on me. She wouldn't go so low as to bet against—

"Peeta. I wasn't pretending," Katniss interrupts my thoughts.

For a moment, I assume the words are some residual noise from my imagination. Could she really be answering my question? Has it been haunting her the way it's haunted me, haunted Hawthorne? I look for the truth in her eyes, but unfortunately she hides her face by staring at her toes. Nevertheless, the way she twists the life out of her sash, that old nervous habit, convinces me it wasn't a trick of the ear.

I suppress a sigh and about a hundred conversations that all begin with: _I know. I feel the same way_. I haven't forgotten the hurt. There's more that she owes me. "What happened with Gale?" I ask. "I deserve to know."

Katniss rises from the bed. She pads over to the window; although, because it's night it's nothing more than a black hole in the wall. She takes over a minute to think it over and I admit I get a little impatient. "He said something about how you don't know how you feel about him because you live here, in Twelve I mean," I prompt.

"We talked about running away sometimes," she replies point-blank.

That much I could have guessed. I've only been to the woods twice and each time it was difficult to turn back and go home. "Why didn't you?"

"He has three younger siblings. I have Prim. And our mothers. It would be hard."

That much I understand, but I can't make sense of what Gale said and what Katniss is saying now. "So if you ran away from Twelve you could have feelings for him?"

Katniss turns her body from the window and leans against the wood paneling "Gale is my best friend," she declares, making the statement sound as concrete as her eyes being gray or that her hair is black. "When we first started…" She waves between the two of us, indicating our relationship without putting a label on it. God forbid she admit we were dating. "I felt like I was betraying Gale. He resents anyone born with advantages."

"But you don't."

"You can't control who your parents are, what you're born into." Katniss shrugs.

So what Katniss said about a class difference, those were merely well-rehearsed words; not some kind of deal breaker. That revelation is all well and good, but I feel like we're getting off track here. "What does that have to do with running away with Gale?" I ask.

"Nothing," Katniss says.

A frustrated breath escapes my throat. Is she seriously going to continue to avoid the question like she has time and time again? Did she think she could come to my room late at night and act like nothing is wrong? "Katniss, he _kissed_ you. He's in love with you," I say, my voice rising in volume.

"I know!" she nearly shouts back. She turns her face away, sucks in a breath, and holds it there.

I can't decide whether to be grateful or depressed that she isn't in denial for once.

Katniss pushes off the wall with a second wind of energy. Her irritation drives back any reluctance she felt before. "I know," she repeats. "And I hate him for it. I hate both of you for confusing me!" She accidentally yanks on the tie of her robe, causing it to fall open. She, like me, avoided the silky pajama outfits and went for familiar cotton.

Ironically, seeing her temper softens mine. Call me pathetic for caring this much after she dumped me and possibly has feelings for another guy, but to see Katniss hurting, hurts me. I stand and gradually close the space between us. "What are you confused about?"

"Because it's not what I want." Her voice cracks on the last word. "It's never been what I want."

A relationship. A boyfriend. Marriage. Kids. Anything she couldn't stand to lose. Those are the things Katniss said she didn't want. Gale and I both knew this and we still pursued her. Maybe that makes Katniss emotionally unavailable, but it also makes us idiots for trying to change her. I finally comprehend the explanation she gave Gale about her feelings. If they ran away, if they were free of the Capitol, she would be free to be in love, with him. And when Katniss takes a quick breath before she speaks, that exactly what I think she's going to tell me now.

"And then, because I need one more reason to hate myself, now each time he and I talk about this it feels like I'm betraying him over and over." She covers her face with her hands, groaning through her fingers.

_What?_ Gale has known Katniss' stance on relationships for longer than I have. The only way Katniss could betray him is if…if she fell in love anyway. "Why, Katniss?" I ask earnestly. _Say it_, I silently beg. _Because you weren't pretending. Because you didn't have to be free of the Capitol like you thought. Because you fell in love with me even when you didn't want to._

She drops her hands to her sides, her shoulders sagging with unseen weight. "Why are you here?" she whispers. And suddenly we're back in the present; on a train headed to the Capitol. Katniss lets her gaze lock with mine. She doesn't hide the pain in her voice. "It shouldn't be you."

I swallow once, but my voice comes out thick anyway. "Would you have ever spoken to me again?"

"No," Katniss replies without hesitation. As much as that stings, I believe her.

"The odds were in my favor today," I say, taking her hand.

"That's not funny."

I laugh, twisted as it may be, pull her to me and hug my arms around her fully. Katniss doesn't resist. She doesn't hold me as tightly as I hold her either, but she does put her hands on my back and rests her cheek on my chest. I press my lips against the top of her head and breathe her in. I'm amazed that she smells the same. We stand there for a while, letting the train rocks us now and again.

"You should rest," I suggest when we eventually pull apart. "Do you want me to walk you back to your room? Or you could sleep here? I can sleep on the floor."

Katniss nods solemnly. It's only when she removes her robe and throws it on the end of the bed do I understand which option she decided to go with. I check the closet for extra pillows and sure enough there's three plus a blanket. Even if there wasn't extra I could have pulled all the clothes out and slept in those like a pile of laundry if need be. Katniss waits for me to lay out my bedding and turn out the light before she lays her head on the pillow. I listen to the sheets rustle and try not to think too much about how there's a girl in my bed, technically.

That thought amongst of sea of others makes sleep an impossibility. I lay there with my eyes open, waiting for shapes to emerge from the darkness as they adjust.

I wish we could run away, cowardly as it may sound. I wish there was someone else out there who could pose a challenge to the Capitol's corruption. I wish someone could save us from the Games.

It's remarkable and beautiful how Katniss was able to do just that; save her sister from the Games. No matter what she does here, she can remember that act of bravery, and at the very least, she can live with herself. The Capitol will never take that piece of dignity away from her. I want that, too.

"Peeta?" Katniss asks in small voice. "What happens now?"

And then I know. My plan. My strategy. The Capitol can take me from my family, my home, put me in an arena, and tell me to kill or be killed. But I can be more than a pawn in their games. I can do something to make myself proud, as my father said. I can participate in the Games, but I don't have to try to win. "You go home." The words slip from my mouth with such ease and sincerity it almost frightens me, but not enough to take them back.

Katniss however, snorts at the idea. "Sure." I can't see it, but I imagine her rolling her eyes. We've got that District Twelve track record to uphold."

"Just close your eyes and think of home. Before you know it you'll be there."

Katniss is quiet for about seventeen seconds. "What are you thinking about?" she questions.

I take a deep breath and close my eyes. A scene is painted in my mind's eye with billowing trees, a clear sky, and calm water. My best memory. "The lake."

The rustling of fabric prompts me to open my eyes, wiping the image from my brain. Blankets haphazardly fall around me like a cocoon. I feel, more than see, Katniss sidle up next to me on the floor. I turn on my side and search for her eyes in the darkness. I barely make them out. I swallow back any thoughts or questions. Whatever this is, I'll wait for her to explain it.

She lays her head near mine; close enough to share a pillow. It feels familiar—kind of like it was at the lake when we dried off under the sun. A lifetime ago.

"I wasn't pretending," Katniss repeats. This time it's more than just a statement. It's a promise.

She shifts closer, brushing her lips against mine. Soft. Reserved. And still, it makes me feel exhilarated. Invincible. She leans into me to deepen the kiss, yet the way she nervously touches my cheek with her fingertips reminds me of her inexperience. When she teases my lips with her tongue I open my mouth to her. When she tucks her body close to mine I rest my arm over her waist. When her breath turns raspy and quick I let her breathe while placing small reverent kisses across her face. We don't talk much. Enough has been said.

At some point we'll slow down, come to our senses, and remember where we'll be around this time next week. On a date with the Capitol. For now, we're together. And we're fearless.

* * *

A/N: Epilogue to come.


	13. Chapter 13

**Epilogue:**

_A Tuesday…after…_

The swinging door _smacks_ against the back wall with such force I nearly plunge my paintbrush into the cake. A nearby cart of lemon poppy seed loaves trembles at the disturbance.

"Peeta, do we have anymore cheddar buns?" Rilee shouts above the commotion of the customers up front.

I glance at the paper bag on the counter wherein hides a stash of cheese buns I set aside this morning. Rilee notices my glance and raises an eyebrow at me. "Mom doesn't like it when you give away merchandise," he says.

"Mom doesn't have to know," I reply, returning my attention to the cake. It's unlikely she'll find out. Mom hasn't spent a day at bakery in a month. Actually, scratch that. She does spend the occasional morning here if only to show off her new clothes, hair pieces, shoes, and god knows what else.

Rilee rolls his eyes as the door swings shut. My brothers are torn about the allowance I give Mom. It's the respectful thing to do. The moral thing to do. That doesn't mean she deserves it, not after the childhood she made for us, but if it keeps her out of our hair, and more specifically out of my house, she can spend all the money I give her on expanding her chicken figurine collection for all I care.

I shift focus back to the cake—a modestly sized yellow cake with strawberry filling, butter cream frosting, and a very specific flower design. I even stopped at the florist to pick up an example and make sure I had the form correct. I also remembered to pick up a new bouquet for my foyer. I don't particularly care if I have fresh flowers in my foyer. I don't even care about calling the entrance of my house a _foyer_, with the funny pronunciation and all. But Kinnian suggested it and the florist is one place I don't hesitate to spend my money. I can sense Rilee appreciates that even if he never says so outright.

I choose a pleasant summery green frosting for the swirling stems and leaves that decorate the side of the cake. The motif doesn't quite fit with the late summer season—most people ask for autumnal colors this time of the year. This cake is bright like springtime. The customer will appreciate it. That's all that matters really.

I'm awakened from my decorating zone when Dad swings into the backroom, whistling a pleasant tune. He pauses to look over the cake. "That's a nice design. Quite sweet," he comments while removing his apron.

I glance at the clock and notice it's after two. Miche will be here any minute for his shift. I've taken over the early mornings with Dad. It just made sense as I haven't been sleeping well and Miche doesn't mind taking a break from the early shifts. Lately, Dad and my brothers have been very accommodating to whatever I suggest. It's an interesting change.

"Maybe Grace and Miche would like similar design for the wedding cake," Dad speculates.

I politely nod. Frankly, both Miche and Grace would prefer to grab a random loaf of bread and elope. They applied for a marriage license and housing a week after I got back, but the process keeps getting held up. Either something is signed incorrectly or the paperwork gets lost. Usually, the officials are more than happy to issue a license, especially when you can pay the fee in cash. But something keeps interrupting my brother's attempts and I'm kind of afraid to think about the reasons why that is.

"You'll have to describe it to them because this one is coming with me today," I say while adding a few finishing touches to the petals.

"Oh? I don't believe I saw the ticket for this cake. Who is it for?" he asks.

"A special customer. A long-belated birthday present." I could sit here and make changes for another hour at least, but if I want this cake to be eaten fresh I need to stop. "Would you mind boxing it while I clean up?"

Dad does so with a small grin on his face. He may actually rival my mother in his enjoyment of my winnings, not because he buys anything for himself, but because it allows him to be generous in a way he's always wanted to be. I swear he gives away more cookies than he sells these days.

After I finish cleaning the frosting and flour from my hands and hang up my apron, I catch Dad staring at me. That happens a lot—catching people staring, that is. The reactions vary from awe to delight to bewilderment. And they all stare at my limp, no matter how much improved it is. Dad is no different of course. He shows the same amount of embarrassment at being caught. "Mind if I walk you out?" he asks.

I don't have much choice, so I nod. Miche arrives just when we've finished packing up. Dad gives him a few instructions before we leave. He does the same thing to me regarding tomorrow morning's bake while we walk, despite the fact that the procedure is more or less second nature to me. "What do you think about adding a dark chocolate ganache?" he prattles on about some recipe. "It'll be rich, but I think it will have a good finish." Trust my father to talk about pastries as if they're a fine wine.

"Dad?" I gently interrupt.

He takes note of our surroundings and seems surprised to find himself standing at the edge of the path that leads to my house. "Oh. I don't mind walking to the Village," Dad says quickly. "Will you be able to carry everything?"

I take the cake box from him, holding it by the blue ribbon wrapped around it, and adjust the flowers under my arm. My hands are full, but it's manageable. Dad likes to look for reasons to tag along. He's done more fathering in the past five weeks then he's done in the past five years. Overcompensating would be my guess. "Dad, it's okay," I assure him. "I'll see you tomorrow morning."

His expression is doubtful, but I turn down my road anyway. I feel him watching my back, waiting for me to drop something or trip. I hold back a heavy sigh until I'm out of hearing range. Who would have thought attentive parenting would be so…exhausting?

The relief I feel when walking into Victor's Village is more a result of fatigue after a long day's work than any real sense of home. It's funny that I—the youngest brother—am the first to move out. You know, when you take it at face value and don't think about the circumstances too hard.

I thought about moving my family into the new house. I have the room and god knows Mom pushed for it. However, the few days I spent with my family before the official move into the Village felt…off. Sure, my family was happy and thankful to have me home, even Mom shed a tear, but after the fanfare was basically over and we had to go back to normal life it was like we were playing the parts of mother, father, and brother. We were ghosts of what we used to be. I don't blame them entirely. We weren't the steadiest family unit to start with and the Games just made that all the more clear. It was easier for me to separate from them than to figure out how to fix it.

Dad tries to understand. He does all he can to build some kind of normalcy. Thus the ramblings about bread and pastries every other day. I can't hate him for trying. Yet, I dread the day he realizes the normalcy he strives to create simply no longer exists.

I take a detour from the path to my front door to unload some of the wares that weigh me down, preferably before I drop them. I'm just setting down the cake and flowers in order to free up my hands to knock when the red lacquered door flies open.

"Peeta!" Prim shouts happily.

"Hi, Prim. How are you today?"

"Excellent," she says with a grin. "_Except _Buttercup has gone missing."

"Again?" The cat's disappearing act is a near daily occurrence. Unlike everyone else, he's rather indifferent to the new house. "Do you want to go look for him?"

"No. Momma says he'll come back when he's hungry enough. And Katniss says nothing can kill that cat. She called him a cockroach."

I snort at that. "I brought a delivery," I say, holding up the bag and box.

Prim rolls her eyes—a habit she either picked up from her sister or from the scruffy Hawthorne kid that follows her around when he visits. "You always have a delivery," she says, sounding charmingly unimpressed. "Come in! You've probably been up since dawn."

I follow the little hostess into the kitchen. Prim has taken to the house quite well. She never complains; though, I suppose most people would wonder why anyone would complain about moving into a mansion. I seem to find reasons. Katniss does, too.

Prim waits at an island counter while I set down the food and flowers. "Where is your mom?" I ask, noticing her absence.

"She's visiting the Undersees today," she says distractedly as she digs open the bag. I settle down on an open stool, deftly adjusting my leg into a comfortable position while she isn't looking. "Ooh! Cheese buns! I better eat one now before Katniss sees them." She giggles.

I would laugh if I weren't caught up in the last thing she said. "The Undersees?"

Prim goes to the cabinet and retrieves two plates, one for each of us. "The mayor's wife," she clarifies. Then she stops mid-motion, holding the plates against her stomach. "Shoot. I wasn't supposed to tell anyone." She bites her bottom lip anxiously.

It's common knowledge that Mrs. Undersee isn't in the best health. I realized I hadn't seen her in public in at least two years when she made an appearance at the victor's party held at the mayor's house, her own house. Having Mrs. Everdeen, a healer, go visit her doesn't seem like sensitive information. However, they were friends when they were kids according to Katniss. And now we're victors; the first ever _pair_ of victors. And now Mrs. Everdeen is visiting Mrs. Undersee. And all of these seemingly innocent details can be twisted into dangerous implications. Keeping things quiet is safer.

"Don't worry. Telling me is okay," I assure Prim.

She smiles, though her cheeks are pink with embarrassment, and puts the plates down along with a cloth napkin for each of us. She eyes the white cardboard box while I set a bun on each plate. "What is this?"

I shrug one shoulder, keeping my face as impassive as possible. "Open it and find out." I bite into a bun.

Prim slides the box across the island so it's right front of her. She squares her shoulders. Her fingers practically twitch with anticipation. Never has anyone untied the knotted ribbon so carefully. When she finally lifts up the lid her eyes go wide and she softly gasps, "Oh…my…"

"I know I missed it by a few months, but, happy birthday."

Prim's watery smile is enough to tell me I'm finally forgiven for botching her birthday. Her fingers float above the white and yellow sugar primroses that completely cover the top, coming just short of actually touching them. "I've never seen anything so pretty," she whispers. She pulls her hand back and holds it in a little fist against her chin. "I don't want to eat it. I'm going to put it in the icebox and look at it every day."

"You said that about the cherry danish I brought you last week."

"That was a beautiful danish!" Prim says, lifting her chin proudly.

I smirk as she examines the cake from all sides, being cautious of disturbing the three-dimensional sugar flowers and leaves. Most kids would have swiped their finger through the frosting by now. "I'm glad you like it. But it's a cake, not a painting. If it doesn't taste good then I didn't do my job." I toss my unused napkin at her. Prim grabs it right out of the air. Then she goes about refolding it.

"Speaking of paintings," she says while avoiding eye contact. "When can I see them? Your paintings, that is."

I toss the last bit of my cheese bun into my mouth to avoid answering. This question comes up every so often, ever since I announced I would pursue painting with my newfound free time. Prim was immediately fascinated, both in my paintings and in learning the craft. I'm not averse to teaching her, but I can't picture bringing Prim into my studio. The content of my paintings is nothing she—not to mention the rest of the country—hasn't seen before; however, I can't be the one to feed her nightmares. I couldn't live with myself. "I'm not sure. Let me get a bit further on them, okay?" I hedge. Prim just stares at the cake a while longer. Whether or not she believes my lie, I can't tell. I'm just relieved she let it go so easily.

"You're coming over tonight," Prim says abruptly, dispelling the tension. She gently folds up the box again. She even reties the ribbon. The girl gets serious mileage out of her birthday presents. "I'll make dinner and we'll have the cake for dessert."

On this, I know better than to argue. "If you insist," I reply.

Prim swings back around the island counter and picks up her afternoon snack. I can't help glancing over my shoulder toward the living room. Prim notices. I should know better by now. I need to work on my stealth where Prim is involved.

"I don't know where Katniss is," she says quietly. She picks off the topping of the bread and pops it into her mouth. "She was gone before I woke up."

"Hasn't come back yet?"

A shallow shake of her head. "I don't think so."

"Hunting, I'm sure." Katniss spends as much time in the woods as she's able to risk.

"You can stay here and wait if you want," Prim suggests, dusting crumbs from her hands. "We could play a game. Katniss has been teaching me chess. I'm not very good at it." She says this as an enticement of course, as Prim rarely loses at board games, and consequently, we've tired of losing to her. Haymitch especially.

"I have some things to take care of at my house," I say. Prim sniffs to hide her disappointment. "Tell you what. I'll play a game during cake tonight. Deal?"

"Deal," Prim says, sounding pleased. One would think Prim would have friends knocking down her door now that she lives in the Village. And I'm sure she'd be happy to invite all her friends over, but we have to be very careful about who we spend our time with, for everyone's protection. Thankfully Prim understands this, or at the very least, she's smart enough to sense which rules should not be broken.

Prim thanks me again on my way out the front door. I was only being half honest when I told her I had things to take care of at my house. Other than switching out the dead flowers in the foyer for the new ones, I don't have any chores to speak of. The house may be large, but I don't make much of a mess living by myself. I plan to work on my paintings until I tire myself out and take a nap. Sleeping in two or three hour increments seems to be working out; although, it makes for a disruptive evening.

Once inside, I trade the flowers from last week for the new bunch I bought this morning. The flowers sit in a hideously ugly orange ceramic vase that I bought from the Klee's after realizing the only thing I had to hold flowers was an empty jam jar. Kinnian says that vase had been sitting on the shelf since she was born, if not before. I liked the color. The dead flowers get stuffed into the trash bin in the kitchen. Then I go to the sink to rinse my hands.

My brain flips through each of my current projects, determining which I should tackle next. I stare out the window above the sink, but images of fire falling from the sky prevent me from really absorbing whatever lay outside the window. I didn't get burned as badly as others did…not like that kid with the blackened skin covering his face…burned through to the point that I could see the bone—

"Gah!" I jolt away from the water, which turned to a scalding temperature while I wasn't paying attention. I shut off the water with an aggravated grunt.

Drying my reddened hands with a dishtowel, I shake my head of the images. I guess I know what I'm painting today. I turn toward the stairs, but something in the corner of my eye makes me pause. I glance through the window again. Against the glare of the sun I'm surprised to see someone in my backyard. We have solicitors all the time: Shoe repair, clothes makers, house cleaners, handymen, sometimes begging children. We haven't had any looters; people are respectful of victors. However, the solicitors don't usually lie on their backs in my backyard staring up at the clouds.

The storm door slaps behind me as I head outside. I stop when the trespasser's head is about six inches from my shoes. "Hey," I say.

One gray eye peeks open as she looks up at me with the sun in her eyes. "Hey," she says back.

"What are you doing out here?"

"Waiting." _For you_, she refrains from saying. Not that the trespasser—Katniss—needs to say that to me. See, we have a routine, too.

We find each other. Every day. For a date, so to speak.

Katniss rolls onto her stomach; then pushes herself to her feet. "You ready?" she asks while dusting herself off. Her eyes flit over me from my head to my feet, pausing somewhere in the vicinity of my left hand. "Where's your cane?" she asks accusingly.

"I've gone all day without my cane."

"All day?" she asks, her tone crisp.

"Yes. And I didn't fall. Nor did I fall yesterday or the day before that." Did I stumble? Sure. Is my hip sore? No more than usual. But the cane attracts waves more stares and attention than my damn limp does by itself.

"So now you're tired," Katniss says, crossing her arms over her chest. "And when you fall and there's no one to carry you home, what will we do then?"

I roll my eyes. Is it strange that I miss the days when Katniss didn't give a thought to risking my life by daring me to swim without having ever taken a lesson? "Are we going to hike through the woods?" I question.

"No."

"Climb through the mines?"

Her hands drop to her sides. "No."

"Encounter any terrain rougher than a gravel road?"

A sigh. "No."

"Then I'll be fine," I say reassuringly. I hold out my hand to her. She waits a good ten seconds before she responds.

"I'm not carrying you," Katniss mutters. But she takes my hand, so I forgive her.

Taking a walk is our usual activity—it being one of the few things we can do out of the house alone. When winter comes that will probably change. We rarely plan them—our meetings. Looking back on our encounters, we never really planned them in the first place. But we always find each other. Every single day since we stepped off the train in Twelve. Sometimes I'm at the bakery; sometimes she's at the Hob. If we go all day without seeing one another I come over for dinner without an invitation. We don't have to do anything significant. We usually don't.

We walk further away from my house where the Village property eventually meets the fence, keeping to a pace comfortable for my leg. If I walked loud before I hate to think how Katniss would describe it now.

We almost never run into anyone walking the perimeter. The fence buzzes more than ever, making it more dangerous. Winning the Games brought the district additional wealth including more hours with electricity. Good for the citizens theoretically, but not so good for Katniss' poaching business.

"How was the bakery?" Katniss asks.

"Business was good. I left some cheese buns at your house." I peer down at Katniss just in time to catch her gritting her teeth through a smile. She doesn't know whether to be thankful or be annoyed that I figured out her favorite Mellark recipe. It means she gets more gifts. I appreciate the smile, small as it may be. "And a cake for Prim," I add.

"An entire cake? She'll make herself sick."

"If she can be convinced to eat it. It's a belated birthday present." Katniss weaves her fingers in between mine, silently saying thank you. Giving presents to my wingman is a strategy that wins me points with both Everdeen sisters time and time again. "She insisted I come over for dinner."

"Of course she did. She's probably planning a feast as we speak," she grumbles, but there's little sincerity behind it. If Prim does plan a feast, it will only end up being what we decide to cook since Prim only knows salads and stews, though she's anxious to learn more. You'd be hard pressed to find something that girl isn't interested in learning. Besides hunting.

"What did you do today?" I ask, turning the question back on her.

"Went hunting."

"Get a good haul?"

"Not really." We cross the unmarked line between the Village and the edge of the townie residential area. I can't help thinking back to the first time I brought Katniss through town to my house. She might have been uncomfortable then, but no part of the district fazes her now. Same thing with me and the Seam. Surviving the Games results in a certain level of indifference toward the things that used to cause us stress. "I stopped by the Hob," she says quietly, gazing at the off-white houses, the backs of which are in disrepair compared to the fronts, especially out here on the fringes where there are no neighbors behind them to complain. "Went to see Hazelle and the kids."

There's a loaded statement no matter how casually it's said. Katniss visits the Hawthornes twice a week to drop off part of her haul, talk with Mrs. Hawthorne, and hopefully to get a message from her former best friend. "Any word?" I murmur.

Katniss shakes her head; casts her eyes to the ground. Disappointed, once again.

Gale has barely said two words to her since we came home. He shows up for hunting on Sundays, but Katniss says it's businesslike, not like it was before. Whenever she makes herself miserable over him I debate between telling her not to waste another second on him and ringing Hawthorne's neck for making my girl sad. "He'll come around. He needs more time."

"Maybe." She shrugs.

His stubbornness frustrates us both, but what I hate most about the situation is that Katniss thinks this is in some way her fault, when she's done nothing wrong. She believes she can apologize her way back into a friendship. I don't have the heart to tell her how unlikely that is. Hawthorne is nursing a broken heart, and no amount of apologies can fix that. Not when he's one of the few people that truly knows that what he saw on the screen was real.

We stop to rest at a stump that, judging by the width, must have been an enormous tree when it was still standing. Probably cut down to prevent anyone from trying to climb over the fence. Normally I would feel strange about squatting in someone's backyard, but we're behind Boothe's parent's house, so it's fine. "You still need to meet Boothe," I say while Katniss helps me to sit down on the stump. I mention that every time we pass by his house or the grocer's in town. Katniss spends her money at the Hob, so she's never met him officially. I say I'd like to introduce them, but that probably won't happen.

_Don't give them anything they can use to hurt you. Not a single thing_, Haymitch's voice says in my head.

I decide to change the subject. "How did you sleep last night?" The muscle in Katniss' jaw tenses at the question. And no response. Both bad signs. "What was it?" I ask quietly. I can practically feel the Capitol inching closer with its cameras to hear our private conversation. I tell myself how crazy that sounds, but the feeling lingers.

Katniss lets go of my hand. She takes an interest in retying the laces of her boots. "I can't remember," she snaps.

I don't have any real desire to talk about my nightmares either, so I'm in no position to judge. I admit I've neglected to show Katniss my paintings, my nightmares. I'm afraid of her reaction. I hope that painting will get the images out of my head, but to Katniss or anyone else it might seem like I'm obsessed.

During those early morning hours when sleep evades me, I try to think of a solution to help with Katniss' nightmares, to help us both. She doesn't admit to having them, but the indicators are all there. The light in her bedroom window comes on nearly every night, not to mention the dark smudges under her eyes. Katniss doesn't draw or write, and she doesn't want to talk about it. Actually, what helps me a lot of time is the second I wake up from my nightmare I look for that light in her window, solely to remind myself that she's alive. If she were actually near me, who knows? Maybe I wouldn't have nightmares at all. "You know, if some night when you can't sleep…if you don't want to be alone...you can come over to my house," I mumble the last few words.

Katniss takes no time to think it over. "Then you won't be able to sleep."

"I'm usually awake anyway."

Katniss, having fully and unnecessarily re-laced her boots, carefully folds the cuffs of her pants. "My mother wouldn't approve."

"Yes, and we both know how important your mother's approval is to you." I laugh, but it sounds hollow. According to Mrs. Everdeen, Katniss and I aren't officially a couple. She's too young for a boyfriend.

Katniss pulls her braid over her shoulder and plays with the end. I try not to squirm with anticipation. "I suppose if someone saw me coming out of your house in the morning it would be good for the rumor mill, right?"

_It always comes back to this_. We traded one set of rumors for another when returning to Twelve. Before I was the townie taking advantage of a girl from the Seam. Now we face speculation on whether or not our relationship is legitimate. "I don't care about that."

"You should," she says sharply.

It bothers me when Katniss insinuates that I don't think about our welfare and the welfare of our families. Why else would I buy junk I don't need from the Klee's if not to ensure they don't starve? Why would I give my mother money and work in the bakery if not to show my father he hasn't lost his son? I understand the Capitol only backs us as long as we're a couple and we face dire consequences if our relationship is proven to be a sham. I understand Snow will use any reason to end us. But I will not let him or the Capitol direct my every move. I didn't do that while I was in the Games and I'm not going to do it now. "Whatever. Forget it," I snap. I struggle to stand. Katniss reaches out to help me, but I wave her off. Thankfully, she refrains from pointing out how much easier standing would be with the cane. I stalk off in no specific direction. Katniss follows behind me. She could catch me without a problem, but she leaves me the dignity of a few paces between us.

Her voice comes sooner than I expect.

"Peeta?" she calls out softly. I stop but refuse to look back. "It was mutts. Wolves." She exhales a shuddering breath." I slowly turn around to face her. Her expression is remarkably stoic, but the breaks in her voice betrays her. "I was being chased," she explains. "I ran for miles and miles. I was so tired, but I could feel them biting at my heels the moment I stopped to rest."

That exhaustion reads in her drooped shoulders. I understand being tired. We're free from the Games, but will we ever stop running? "Come here," I say, holding my arms open. She doesn't rush, but she doesn't hesitate to close the space between us. She presses her face against my neck. I hold her tight. "I get it, you know," I murmur against her ear. "I see them, too. When I close my eyes." I decide I will show her my paintings. Today. "We have to take care of each other. I don't see how we're going to survive otherwise."

Her voice is muffled against my shoulder. "It was easier to take care of you when we were in the Games."

I smirk despite the perverse humor of that statement. "Even when I was a breath away from dying?"

"At least I knew how to handle that."

"Your green face at the sight of my inflamed wound would beg to differ." Katniss pulls away enough to show me her annoyed face. I smile and cross my arms over the small of her back. Katniss keeps her eyes on the collar of my shirt. "We're alive," I remind her. "We're safe." _We aren't in the Games anymore._

Pain, deep and heavy, flashes in her eyes. "I don't feel safe," she whispers. _We'll never be free of the Games_, goes unsaid.

I comb my fingers through the stray pieces of hair covering her eyes, pushing it away from her face. "Then we'll have to work on that," I reply.

Katniss leans back slightly to stare directly into my eyes. She sees the honesty of my promise, though she can hardly believe I can make good on it. "You make it sound so simple."

I shrug as well as I can with one arm wrapped around her waist. Katniss considers this for a brief moment, not convinced in the least if I know her pessimistic mind. Maybe it doesn't matter. Maybe the promise is enough.

The wind kicks up, ruffling the trees in the distance. Katniss lifts up onto her toes and brushes her mouth over mine. When she sinks back down, I follow her lips, and kiss her smile. In these moments, the monsters fade away. Nothing lurks in the corners of my mind. There's just us.

Katniss breaks away for a breath. Her tongue darts in between her lips in a way that's way too enticing to have been done on purpose. Before I can lean in again, Katniss steps back slightly, taking my hand. "Let's go back. We need to stop Prim before she invites Haymitch over for dinner."

I groan, but let her tug me along. I slip an arm around her waist and sneak kisses in between sentences. If Snow could see us now, and I shudder to think he does, maybe he would realize we're not a threat. Our actions in the Games weren't acts of rebellion; we just wanted to live. Then again, maybe he's right to see a threat. Because these are the only moments that we aren't afraid.

* * *

The End

* * *

A/N: We've come to the end! For reading this chapter you will receive a Mellark bakery item of your choosing. I would pick apple pie. What would you choose?

I feel obligated to inform everyone that I will not be writing a sequel. Of this I'm certain. The premise of this story was to explore what Peeta and Katniss' relationship could have been if Peeta had been brave enough to talk to Katniss before the Games. I chose to end the story where I did because it was where I felt that particular exploration met its conclusion. Some aspects of the Games, as well as the events of CF, might be different in First Date's universe, and I love thinking about the possibilities and discussing them. But I don't want to write about it. ;)

Thank you to everyone for reading, rec-ing, reviewing, and waiting patiently or not-so-patiently for the end of this story. This has been a great experience and being able to chat with other HG fans throughout has made it even more rewarding. mfwickee!

P.S. As a final reward, the 1000th reviewer (should I reach that point) will win the opportunity to request a one shot to be added to the _Always Trust Your Wingman_ collection. My only stipulation is that it be an original scene, meaning it can't be a scene I've already written only from another character's POV. That's not my style. Of course, even if you don't nail the 1000th review I am open to suggestions. Mwah!

P.P.S. I added a new two part future-shot to the ATYW collection titled _Double Date_.


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